


Werewolf Discourse, OR: Nicolas Pereyra’s Coffee Shop for Dipshit Cryptids

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Casual Sex, Character Development, Coffee Shops, Cryptozoology, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drunk Sex, Everyone Is Just Doing Their Best, Hook-Up, Internalised Werewolf-isms, Lots of conversations, M/M, Mentions of HIV/AIDS, Muggles, Open Relationships, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Draco Malfoy/Fenrir Greyback, Werewolf Draco Malfoy, Wizard/Muggle Romance, haunted dolls, mentions of csa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-01-28 20:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 114,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: Sometimes a family is a reluctant werewolf, an amateur cryptozoologist-slash-barista, a haunted doll, and a lot (like, an unhealthy amount) of coffee.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the sequel to _More Than A Firebolt_ that anyone wanted, or needed - but golly, it’s definitely the one I wrote. 
> 
> **A few things to start:** this is directly a sequel to both _MTAF_ and _Bloodsport_ ([series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661424)) but, if you’re willing to just go with the flow, you don’t need to read them. In summary: Draco Malfoy is a werewolf; Sirius, Remus and Tonks are all very much alive; and, after a novel’s worth of dodgy daddy-kink, Sirius and Harry are an established pairing who have spent the past few years in this series very happy and perfectly fine. 
> 
> **Housekeeping:** this is a WIP with the huge caveat that I have already written 18 chapters of it and it’s basically finished on my end. I’m updating, once again, as I edit. This isn’t a short fic although I guaran-fucking-tee to you it was originally started as a joke that was not going to be longer than like, 3000 words. That did not pan out. 
> 
> **More housekeeping:** this fic won’t be to everyone’s tastes. It’s a canon/OC pairing and that’s like, the entire focus and thrust of the story. Deal with it. This is my heart’s song and I am singing it. Let me live my truth.

(September, 2003)

‘You’re like clockwork, you know that?’ Dark brown eyes twinkle with amusement as they look at Draco. ‘Do you just have one day a month you’ll go out and get fucked up or something?’ 

Draco squints at the muggle. It’s too early for this. His head hurts. Everything hurts. He feels like his own skin has been pulled back over his bones as an ill-fitting jumper and his mouth is dry. Nausea builds at the back of his throat. Every sound grates like sharp nails on a chalkboard. 

‘If you say so,’ he grits out. ‘Can I have—’ 

The muggle’s voice is bright. ‘Two full breakfasts and three coffees? Caffé Mocha, extra whipped cream?’ 

Draco glares at him. ‘Yes.’ He wants to scold the muggle for interrupting him. But in fairness, he did save Draco from saying an entire sentence and, with every word feeling like bile rising in the back of his throat, that’s not exactly a bad thing. And he did recall Draco’s order flawlessly so there is something to be said for that. 

Rubbing his exhausted eyes with the heel of one hand, Draco mutters, ‘Good memory.’ 

‘It’s the highlight of my month, innit?’ The muggle taps at the register in front of him. ‘Watching you put away all that food. Where does it go, exactly?’ 

‘Your hips. Everything I put in my mouth magically transfers into your majestic thighs. It is a gift and a curse. While I may stay eternally slim, I am cursed to look at your beautiful body once a month, every month, and I must live in that torment.’ 

The muggle beams at him. 

Draco drops his money on the counter. ‘Stop that.’ 

‘Go sit down, I’ll bring it all out to you.’ 

 

*

 

(October, 2003)

‘Know what last night was?’ the muggle asks as Draco approaches the counter. 

He knows what last night was. He can feel last night inside his bones. 

Wrapping his jumper tight around himself, Draco yawns and says, ‘Why are you talking at me? I just want to eat.’ 

‘I do get that impression,’ replies the muggle, with a wink.

Why is he winking?

‘Eh?’ Draco brain is dragging along at the pace of a flobberworm. He feels like he’s recovering from a flu. Looks like it, too, wearing the most comfortable clothes he owns and shuffling outside with his hair untidy and dark circles under his eyes. ‘What was last night? The finale of Big Brother?’ 

‘Big Brother ended two months ago, mate.’ 

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘Do I care? Make me my coffees.’ 

‘Breakfast?’ 

‘That too.’ 

The muggle hums to himself and pings the order into the register. ‘Full moon, last night,’ he comments mildly. ‘I think you always come here this time of month. That why you’re so grouchy? One of those people who really feels the moon cycles?’ 

Draco stares at him. ‘I feel like I would murder someone for a coffee.’ 

The muggle laughs. ‘That sounds like something a werewolf would say.’ 

‘You’re joking,’ observes Draco.

‘Yeah, I’m joking.’ 

‘Well, don’t.’ Pulling out his wallet, Draco flips through the notes so that he doesn’t have to look at the muggle’s handsome face. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You’re too good looking to say stupid things.’ Draco glances up. ‘Stop that,’ he quickly adds, before the muggle can smile. ‘I’m… I’m tired. Go away.’ 

‘I work here. I’m paid to stand in this spot.’ 

‘I’ll go away,’ Draco says, and sits down to wait for his breakfast. 

 

*

 

(December, 2003)

‘I have a theory,’ calls the muggle across the café. It is snowing outside in soft flurries. Draco’s skin is flushed and bitten from the chill. 

He calls back through chattering teeth. ‘I have a headache.’ He wouldn’t mind the cold if he didn’t also feel brittle all over, like his bones might snap at any moment. He stamps his boots on the mat inside the door before walking up to the counter. ‘And I don’t want to hear your theory.’ 

‘I get that a lot,’ the muggle says. ‘But this one isn’t about mothman, it’s about you.’ 

‘You have a theory about mothman?’ 

The muggle’s eyes light up. ‘I have so many theories about mothman.’ 

Draco gives him a long look and the corners of his mouth, against his better judgement, twitch. ‘Huh,’ he says. 

‘But we can’t talk right now about whether or not he’s an alien or a victim of radioactive mutation. I’ve been banned from mentioning it to customers while on the clock.’ 

‘In that case, let me speak to your manager. I’d like to get you fired.’

‘Nah, you don’t want to hear my theory about  _ you _ ?’ 

‘Not at all,’ Draco says sincerely. ‘I’d like a coffee. You are the coffee boy. That’s why I come here. The wonderful coffee boy makes me wonderful coffees and I feel like a human again.’ 

‘Do you not feel like a human right now?’ the muggle asks. Then, more pointedly. ‘Or  _ last night _ ?’ 

Draco glares. ‘Coffee boy. Coffee. Now.’ 

‘I do have a name.’ 

‘I have limited patience.’ 

‘It’s Nicolas.’ Finger gun. ‘ _ Wonderful _ Nicolas, if that suits you better.’ 

‘Exactly what part of limited patience didn’t you understand?’ 

But Nicolas laughs over Draco’s question and points him over to his usual spot by the window. When he brings out the coffees, they all have a very artfully done mothman silhouette drawn onto the whipped cream with chocolate powder. 

Nicolas puts his finger to his lips and says, ‘Shh.’ 

‘Won’t tell a soul,’ Draco promises and downs the first coffee, cream and all, in one mouthful.

   


*

 

(March, 2004)

There is a queue of muggles separating Draco from Nicolas, and he would like to hex every single one of them. Squinting at the floor, he shuffles slowly closer and closer to the counter. The music playing over the sound system reverberates through his head like ringing claxons.  

The person in front of him takes far, far too much time in ordering a ham and cheese croissant. 

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Nicolas says distractedly when Draco finally reaches the counter. He doesn’t sound at all like himself—that warm, laughing voice turned crisp and professional. ‘What can I get for you?’ 

‘A pile of meat and a vat of coffee.’ 

Seeming finally to notice him, Nicolas looks up. A grin breaks across his face, but it quickly falls as he sees the line stretching behind Draco. ‘Sorry werewolf boy. Can’t chat now. The usual?’ 

The irritation in Draco’s chest bursts into a sudden spark. ‘Yes, the usual,’ he snaps. 

‘Take a seat, I’ll bring it over as soon as I can.’ 

Draco stomps off to his table, sits down, and buries his pounding head in his hands. He doesn’t need the stupid muggle to talk to him anyway. Doesn’t  _ want _ him to. He doesn’t care about some barista’s foolish conspiracy theories. 

It takes much longer than usual for Draco to get his coffees and his breakfast. The café is still full of muggles, and they are all  _ talking _ , and it is the worst thing that has ever happened. With the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, Draco probably looks incredibly, unhealthily ill. He barely managed to get dressed before crawling out of the house this morning, so he’s in public in sweatpants and a cardigan which wouldn’t look out of place on a Weasley. He feels rubbish. 

Blessedly finally, Nicolas shows up with a tray of coffees and unloads them in front of Draco, who looks up blearily. Nicolas’ curly brown hair is dishevelled. It usually looks dishevelled, but most of the time it seems deliberate, like he spent careful time in front of the mirror making sure that the curl at the front fell just  _ so  _ into his eye in a way which would completely destroy Draco. But right now it looks like he has been wiping it messily out of his face and running his hands through it in his rush. 

There is no chocolate art on any of Draco’s coffees. 

‘About time,’ Draco says as he picks one up. Nicolas shoots him an annoyed, harried look. 

‘I’m going as fast as I can.’ He leans in, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll have you know, I made yours two orders ahead of the queue, so you can take or leave it. I’ll take them back and give them to another table if you want to be rude.’ 

Draco blinks at him, once, assessing how sincere he is. And then, deciding it is at least sixty percent, he slams down two of his coffees as fast as he can. They scald his tongue. 

‘How’s that heart rate?’ Nicolas asks as he takes the empty cups. 

‘Terrible whenever you’re around,’ Draco replies. He really is very tired, and he is trying to say that Nicolas is... bad and annoying. Not heart-rendingly attractive. 

Nicolas shakes his head and walks off. But he’s smiling. 

 

*

 

(June, 2004)

‘I joke,’ Nicolas says, putting Draco’s order into the machine before he even has a chance to open his mouth. ‘But I do keep a very close eye on the moon calendar.’ 

Draco groans. He slumps one elbow on the counter and rubs his eye. ‘Is that so?’ 

‘Well, I have to for my blog.’ Nicolas pauses for a second, clearly waiting for Draco to ask him to elaborate. Draco stares him down. ‘You’re really  _ very _ regular.’ 

‘What’s your point?’ 

Nicolas cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. Draco juts his jaw forward and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Nicolas gestures to him. He waves up and down Draco’s body. 

Draco continues to glare. 

‘How do you like your steaks?’ Nicolas asks. ‘Rare?’ 

‘Medium.’

‘And how do you feel about beef chow mein?’ 

Confused. ‘It’s… fine?’ 

‘ _ Pina Coladas from Trader Vic’s _ ?’ 

‘What on  _ earth  _ are you on about?’ 

Nicolas taps his nose conspiratorially. He looks down at the till. ‘Paid yet today, werewolf guy?’ 

‘What, to be mocked and insulted? No, I have not.’ 

‘Who’s insulting?’ Nicolas asks, holding out a hand for the cash. Unhappily, Draco passes it over. ‘You don’t think werewolves are cool?’ 

Draco gapes at him. ‘No, of course not.’ Since he is speaking to a muggle, he adds swiftly: ‘I don’t even think they’re  _ real.  _ But if they did exist they would be feral, uncontrollable, half-breed beasts.’ 

Nicolas fans himself and clutches a hand to his broad chest. 

‘You are a mess,’ Draco tells him. ‘I don’t… I do really want to explain to you how much of a mess you are, because you are an absolute disaster. But I can barely—words. I’m so fucking tired. And hungover. And you have a face like it’s chiselled from… something beautiful, by  _ someone  _ talented, and you are such a disaster that it makes it so hard to properly insult you. I thought you ought to know that. Because you are very nice, and I hate you.’ 

‘That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say,’ Nicolas tells him. 

‘And I never want to say that much again.’ Draco tries not to flush. Fails. ‘Please don’t talk to me.’ 

‘You need a t-shirt.  _ Three Caffé Mochas with Whipped Cream, hold the chat. _ ’ 

Draco narrows his eyes, tries to look icy, and turns around to talk to his table by the window. He can hear light laughter ringing behind him. He clenches his fists. 

 

*

 

(July, 2004)

After the full moon, Draco is not usually up to performing much magic. It’s an effort to even make it into clothes and out the front door. But, with pure spite fuelling him, before he leaves the house he charms one of his t-shirts to read:

_ Just give me my coffees, coffee boy, and hold the chat.  _

Nicolas’ hand flies to his mouth when he sees him. He does not look quite as offended as Draco had been hoping. 

‘That is the cutest fucking thing I have ever seen in my life, werewolf boy.’ 

With a heavy sigh, Draco drags himself to the counter. ‘You could call me by my name, you know,’ he grouses. 

‘Would if I knew what it was.’

‘Draco,’ says Draco. 

Nicolas nods appraisingly. ‘That’s a very good name for a werewolf,’ he says. 


	2. Chapter 2

Draco stretches and rolls over in bed. The morning light that streams in from the south-facing clerestory windows hits him square in the face. He squints into the glare and pulls his pillow closer. He has no need nor desire to get up yet.

Today is going to be a good day.

The moon is waning and Draco is feeling better every morning. Sure, it’s a cycle; in fewer than twenty-eight days he’ll be back to feeling like death knocked over. But for now, he has energy. He is getting the colour back into his cheeks. Outside, the summer sun is warm and bright. This afternoon he has an appointment in Diagon Alley with a wizard who looks to have a very interesting artefact to sell to him. Maybe he’ll go and get lunch before he goes to meet the seller. Somewhere wizarding where he can get _real_ food. Not one of the muggle places that litter the streets around his flat and to which he always ends up going for convenience sake.

Father keeps making pointed comments about that, after all. _Going native_ , he calls it. It had been one of his arguments against Draco moving out of the manor at all.

‘I’m hardly share-housing in some flea-ridden dump in Hackney,’ Draco had said as he packed his things. ‘I want to be closer to the Ministry. Some old warlock with a historic building has died and it has been divvied up into flats. I’m renting a proper wizarding place, father. That is how it is _done_ these days. You have to be in the middle of it to build connections.’

Lucius had been unhappy. But he had taken Draco at his words and accepted a promise that he was only ever a floo away.

The whole spiel had been partially true. But closer to the whole truth was the simple fact that there was not enough space to hide at home.

With a yawn, Draco sits up and drops his toes into the soft carpet lining the floor. He summons and pulls on his dressing robe and does what he does every morning: goes straight to the kitchen, points his wand at the kettle to get it going, and wanders over to the stove top to check the cauldron simmering on the back hob.

Taking the lid off the cauldron carefully, Draco lets the steam slowly disperse. He brews his morning Earl Grey while he watches the swirling amethyst liquid bubbling slowly on the low flame. The body of the potion is a deep, rich purple swirling with characteristic strips of twisting silver. Draco eyes them carefully and watches their density, the speed at which they move through the viscous liquid.

‘Good,’ he says to himself, and sets the lid back on the cauldron. By tomorrow the silver should be combined with the rest of the potion and turned it to a deep, sapphire blue, but for now it is doing what it is meant to be doing. He has brewed wolfsbane perfectly every month since he was sixteen years old. He has had to. But he never stops being careful with it. There is no room for error.

In any case, he has no reason to worry this month. The potion is fine. Draco finishes making his tea, takes a long drink, and turns around to face the living area. He has a whole morning to pass away before he needs to head out. He knows how he is going to spend it.

With a flick of his wand in the direction of the wireless, Draco fills the flat with music. He crosses to the dining table, sets his mug down, and surveys the piece in front of him. ‘What to do with you,’ he murmurs.

For all its clean lines, tall windows and high ceilings, Draco has to admit that his flat looks a bit overcrowded. Not that there isn’t ample space: there is. The building was never small and has been in wizarding hands long enough that there are expansion charms in every corner of the place. The problem is Draco. He keeps filling it with things. Tall cabinets line the entire living and dining room, crowded with dark artefacts.

It is a good thing that no one visits Draco, because it doesn’t look great to see an ex-death eater with cursed objects lining the walls from floor to ceiling. He has licenses for all of it, and the cabinets have security charms up the arse. Draco himself can’t even get into some of them with anything other than academic interest.

However, the stuff outside the cabinets? That is a little more up in the air. None of it is dark. Or illegal. Technically. Probably. Most of it wouldn’t look out of place in a muggle charity shop. Paintings, lamps, plates, utensils, models, vases, sculptures. Hand carved fifteenth century Gothic statuettes. A series of tacky resin dragon figurines playing muggle instruments. The eyes light up from a switch under the base. These are, secretly, the pride of Draco’s collection.

Most of the objects, however, are enchanted. A lot of it came to him enchanted and as far as Draco is concerned he is doing wizarding society a favour by taking it rather than let it fall into muggle hands. The stuff that didn’t come to him enchanted, yes, maybe he has been working on a little. Again, what’s the harm in the privacy of his own home?

It’s not like he is selling it on. Well, not to anyone other than other wizards. And, okay, the occasional muggle shop. But only when it is funny.

His project today is a daguerreotype of an older gentleman. He is depicted sitting upright in bed and starting dead-eyed into the camera. Draco suspects he was dead in reality when the photo was taken. Normal enough. The muggle antique shop had been half-convinced that the image was haunted.

Absurd, of course. Pictures cannot be haunted.

They can, however, he enchanted to blink and smile, occasionally, when you’re only half looking at them.

'I shouldn’t,’ Draco muses. He examines the daguerreotype and fiddles with his wand. It’s creepy enough already.

He does it anyway.

*

Draco takes it all back. This is not a good day. It is, in fact, turning out to be quite an unsatisfactory day.

By the time he gets away from his appointment, he is fuming. The bloody warlock had been wasting his time, the object he was offering nothing more than a dime a dozen Curio. And he had the gall to act as though Draco should be _grateful_ for a piece of rubbish like that.

_‘Your family name doesn’t hold much weight any more, son.’_

The words seem to follow Draco down the street as he storms back through Diagon Alley, knocking shoulders with several passers-by.

_‘This is valuable. You’re not going to get a better offer.’_

Draco snorts to himself. He gets better offers for breakfast. Well, no. Draco doesn’t get offers to breakfast, or dinner, or anything meal adjacent—except sometimes afternoon tea with a few older wizards he attends auctions with. But he definitely has his fingers in stickier pots than a _Dark Curio_ , for Merlin’s sake.

Ridiculous.

Fuming to himself, Draco doesn’t look where he is going and, disastrously, walks straight into the very last person he wants a head-long collision with. More proof that today is going from bad to worse.

‘You don’t look happy,’ says Potter by way of greeting, putting his hands out in front of him to push Draco away.

Draco takes a step back and knocks Potter’s hands off his chest. ‘Ugh, not you.’ _Ugh._ That’s the word for it, alright. Potter has apparently decided to continue his recent habit of looking irritatingly cool. He is dressed down in stylish denim and an infuriatingly hip blazer, and there are tattoos peeking out the neck of his loose shirt. Draco pulls a face. ‘How’s your boyfriend? Godfather? Sugar daddy? I’m sorry, can’t quite remember what the situation is there.’

‘Nah, you’ve got it,’ Potter replies, unbothered. ‘But thanks for asking, we’re good.’

‘I don’t actually want to know.’

‘Sex is still _great_. You’d think after a few years it might cool off, especially with how old and close to death Sirius is. But nope.’

‘Do you _have_ to ruin my day like this?’ Draco asks, pained.

‘Looks like it was going pretty poorly already, in fairness.’

‘Yeah, and you’re only making it worse.’

‘Gotta take those little joys where you—’ Potter cuts himself off. His eyes go wide behind his glasses. Draco finds himself on the receiving end of a searching look so intense that he thinks, for a moment, that Potter is doing some sort of spell on him. Green eyes flick rapidly over Draco’s face, taking him in with startling intensity, and then drop, suddenly, to Draco’s hands.

Automatically, Draco moves to bury his hands in the folds of his cloak despite having no clue what he is hiding. But Potter is too fast. With a motion as sharp as lightning he grabs Draco by the wrist and pulls his hand up to his own face. And then Potter does the weirdest thing Draco has ever seen him do (which is saying something, because Potter has always been very prone to strangeness): he sniffs Draco’s fingers.

Draco wrenches his hand away as fast as he can. ‘Get off!’ he snaps. ‘What’s this weird fetish? Don’t touch me!’

But Potter ignores him. He is back to staring at Draco with eyes round like galleons. He has the expression of someone doing fast internal arithmancy. ‘How long?’ he asks.

Faster than he can process what Potter is asking, Draco’s stomach starts to sink. No. _No._ He can’t have—he can’t be thinking…

Potter’s eyes go even wider, dark eyebrows disappearing into his messy hair. ‘Since sixth year,’ he realises. ‘Malfoy. Since you were sixteen.’

Draco’s voice is gone. He takes a staggering step backwards, away from Potter. ‘No,’ he breathes. But Potter is already reaching out to him.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

*

‘How could you tell?’

‘You look unwell,’ Potter says. ‘But like you’re on the mend, but it’s an ongoing thing. It’s the same for Remus. I know the other night was the full moon. And your hands, you have blue lining around your cuticles. It could be spilled ink, _or_ you’ve been brewing wolfsbane. The smell gives it away, I’m afraid.’

They are in a muggle café, taking advantage of the ambient noise and a well-placed muffliato to talk.

Draco frowns. ‘That’s all?’

‘I mean, a few other things fit together at once when I realised. I was watching you, er, pretty closely in sixth year. You were sick. I thought it was stress—’

‘It was.’

‘But it was also this.’

‘... Yes.’

Potter nods. ‘I’m assuming you used the Room of Requirement to transform?’

‘Mm. I was in there all the time anyway, often all night. No one noticed a pattern to my absences.’ At first the room had supplied him with piles of raw meat and broken furniture to scratch. With the wolfsbane, Draco had touched none of it. By his third transformation the room only gave him a bed. He would curl up in it, terrified and unmoving, and wait out the night.

‘I certainly didn’t,’ Potter says. ‘Who did it to you? Greyback?’

‘He was trying to—trying to help me. He wanted to make me into a killer. I didn’t ask for it,’ he adds at Potter’s shocked look. ‘But I was his greatest failure, I think. No matter how hard I’ve tried, I still haven’t ever killed anyone.’

‘Debatable,’ Potter says.

‘Let’s not get into semantics.’

There is a moment of quiet, in which Potter just searches Draco’s face. Draco finds himself shifting in his seat.

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one. Just you.’ Draco breathes out a humourless laugh. ‘And maybe that muggle who works in my favourite coffee shop. He’s joking though. Probably.’

Potter seems almost offended by this. ‘How can no one know?’

‘Well… Severus did,’ Draco says slowly. ‘I had him take an Unbreakable Vow. He made me the first few months of wolfsbane and taught me to make it myself.’ He stares Potter down. ‘And you are not going to tell anyone either.’

As though it’s obvious, Potter replies, ‘I’m telling Remus.’

Draco’s heart thuds. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘Yeah, I am. He’ll be able to help you.’

‘I don’t _need_ help! Do I look like I need help? I’m perfectly fine!’

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Potter asks, ‘Are you? Really?’

‘Yes! I have money!’

‘None of your friends know that you’re a werewolf!’

‘Don’t say it out—’ Draco shoots his hands to cover his ears. ‘I’m not, I’m dealing with it.’

‘You won’t even say it, will you?’ Potter’s voice is rising in volume. ‘You won’t say you’re a werewolf.’

‘Shut _up_. For fucks sake, Potter!’

‘Do you even have friends to tell?’

‘No! Who would I?’

‘Goyle? Parkinson?’

‘I haven’t spoken to them in years, you idiot.’

Potter looks stupefied. He blinks at Draco from behind his glasses. ‘I’m telling Remus. You need people who know.’

Draco stands up and slams his hands on the table. ‘Don’t you _dare_ ruin everything I’ve worked for. If people find out, I’ll lose everything, Potter. I’ll lose my life. My livelihood!’

Potter scoffs. ‘You don’t work. You just live off your stupid enormous inheritance.’

‘I’ll lose that!’

‘Your parents would never cut you off,’ Potter says with a disbelieving snort.

‘Have you met them?’

‘Yeah, and for reasons I don’t understand, they love the shit out of you.’

‘They love their son!’ Draco shouts. Even with the muffliato, several muggles turn to look over, and Draco hastily casts a silencing charm around him and Potter from under his cloak before hissing, ‘A werewolf is _not_ their son.’

Potter stares at him. ‘I’m still telling Remus.’

Draco can feel heat burn up through him, flushing his cheeks and pricking at his eyes. ‘Fine, destroy my life, why would you do anything else?’ he cries, turns on his heel, and stomps out of the shop. The door slams shut behind him.

*

It takes most of the walk home for Draco to calm down enough that he stops fighting back alternate outbursts of tears and rage. But when he does he finds that his feet have carried him, quite without his input, to stop directly in front of Nicolas’ café. His stomach flips. In general, Draco tries to keep any habits directly related to his condition separate from the rest of his life. For that reason, he doesn’t go in here outside of his ritual post-full moon breakfast.

But he is upset. He is upset, and Nicolas has unwittingly soothed many an awful morning already. And fuck it. Today has already trampled on his perfect streak.

It is late afternoon so the café is almost empty. The bell on the door chimes cheerfully as Draco pushes it open, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He strides up to the counter and looks around for Nicolas, who is no where to be seen. No one is anywhere to be seen, in fact, save for one elderly muggle woman nursing her drink and reading a paper in the corner.

'Hello?’ Draco calls out.

A clatter from the back room. A familiar voice: ‘I’ll be right there!’

Nicolas has evidently been doing dishes. He is wearing a damp apron, which he is wiping his soapy hands on as he comes back out into the front of house. ‘Draco!’ he greets with warm surprise.

‘Are you closing?’

‘Kitchen is done, yeah. Coffee machine is still going, though. The usual?’

‘No, I…’ Draco pushes his hair out of his face. It isn’t the time for coffee. ‘Do you have tea? And… something sweet?’

‘Chai?’ Nicolas asks, gesturing to a display of boxes over his shoulder. ‘Jasmine? Rooibos? Something fruity?’

Draco furrows his brow. ‘…Tea.’

‘Very British.’ Nicolas winks and reaches up to grab a box of black tea. He pulls out a teapot and a mug, and looks sidelong at Draco. ‘So, you look different.’

Draco glances down at himself. He is dressed how he normally dresses. An appropriate mixture of muggle and wizarding fashions; an embroidered black cloak laced up around his throat that covers him down to mid-thigh in rich fabric. He is wearing black trousers and dragon-hide boots. But Nicolas, he supposes, only ever sees him in his rattiest, comfiest full-moon day clothes.

How embarrassing.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ adds Nicolas. ‘It’s working for you.’  

Out of the blue, Draco is hit with the realisation that he has no idea what to say. He is aware Nicolas is flirting with him. He knows he usually has no issues spewing whatever his mouth runs off with back at the muggle. Which usually comes out sounding, well, mildly crazy but mostly complementary, even unintentionally. But usually Draco is at his most raw when he is here: sick, and sore, and exhausted from his transformation.

Today he is in his right mind. It has only been a few days since last spoke to Nicolas. He has no idea what to say.

‘I didn’t dress for you,’ he finally tells him, a touch waspishly. Nicolas’ eyebrows rise.

He really is _very_ good-looking. Without the blur of exhaustion, even that seems new. Nicolas is a tall guy, and he is big, his chest and shoulders broad. His stomach looks soft and Draco gets the impression that he eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Most of it stacks onto his body as muscle, but not all. He wears deep, deep v-neck shirts, and that is just compromising. Dark freckles splatter his brown skin all the way down to his chest and disappear only when they are swallowed by thick, dark chest hair.

He is also a muggle, Draco reminds his wandering mind.

‘I’m going to sit down,’ he sniffs. He glances at the display of sweets next to the counter. ‘Bring me some of those cakes along with the tea.’ Pulling a note out of pocket, he drops it on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’

Then he turns sharply and stalks to the empty table at the window and looks outside.

Nicolas follows several minutes later with a pot of tea, an almond and raspberry slice, some banoffee pie and a thick wedge of a very ridiculous looking layered sponge-cake, covered in cream. ‘This what you’re usually going for, yeah?’ he asks, sounding amused.

Draco dryly watches him unload the sweets onto the table. ‘What is?’

‘This rude, snippy posh brat thing that you’re doing.’ Nicolas smirks. ‘You usually miss the mark by a touch.’

Scowling, Draco pulls the multi-coloured cake closer to him and picks up his spoon. ‘You’re dismissed.’

‘There you go, you’ve got it,’ Nicolas says encouragingly, before heading out to the kitchen out back again.

Draco sighs around his first spoonful of sweet, fluffy cake. Harry Potter may know what he is, but at least he has sweets. May as well enjoy the last few hours he has of his life as anything other than a second class citizen. He should have purchased that stupid Curio after all. He will need whatever he can trade off to get by when this is plastered all over the Prophet tomorrow morning.

What will mother and father say?

That is a stupid question. They will say that they don’t have a son and that the Malfoy line is dead.

Which it is. Draco has known this for years. Ever since he felt Fenrir Greyback’s teeth sink sharp into his bare thigh and grow, the moonlight streaming through the window above them.

Before he knows it, Draco has finished his tea, his cake and two thirds of his banoffee pie. He feels sick with shame, but also with sugar. Just as he is weighing up how much of the almond slice he can get down without throwing up, he senses Nicolas approach.

‘Hey.’ The muggle slides into the seat next to him. ‘I want to show you something.’

‘Don’t sit down on the job,’ Draco says.

‘I just finished. Flipped the sign five minutes ago. You and Maggie over there are stopping me from going home. But hey, don’t worry. Finish your cakes.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ lies Draco. He isn’t worried about keeping Nicolas late. He is worried about _other_ things.

‘Look at this.’ Nicolas pulls a small blue flip phone from his pocket and props it between Draco’s face and his next spoonful of pie. ‘I took it the other day, what do you reckon?’

Lowering his spoon, Draco takes the phone from Nicolas with an exhale. ‘What am I looking at, precisely?’

‘You tell me.’

Draco squints at the dark image on the display. ‘Your laundry room?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Nicolas admits. He scooches in closer to point at the screen. ‘But _in_ my laundry. Over here.’

‘I honestly—how do you stand to look at this? It’s tiny and not even moving.’

‘I should have taken a video, you’d see it better,’ Nicolas agrees. He outlines something in the dark corner, behind a basket of dirty clothes. ‘Look. I think it’s a goblin.’

Draco snorts, his free hand coming up to his mouth to stifle laughter. ‘What would a goblin be doing in your laundry?’

‘The dryer has been broken for months, and I’ve read that goblins often collect scrap metal. Look at the reflective eyes, yeah? And the hunched over figure.’

Snickering, Draco passes the phone back to Nicolas. ‘That’s not a goblin,’ he tells him.

‘How would you know?’

‘I have seen plenty of goblins, and they don’t give a rat’s arse about your broken dryer.’

Nicolas gives him a shrewd look. ‘Are you making fun of me, or have you really seen goblins?’

‘Pass me a napkin.’ Reaching inside his cloak, Draco discretely conjures a pen. He clicks it as Nicolas slides a fresh napkin across the table. Pushing his pie out of the way, Draco starts sketching. ‘ _This_ is what a goblin looks like.’

Nicolas leans over his shoulder as he draws. ‘You’re talented,’ he says. Adds: ‘This just looks kind of problematic though.’

‘I’m drawing on a napkin, it’s not going to be the Mona Lisa.’

‘No, I mean it’s on the nose. Do you have any photographic evidence?’

‘What, like your picture of a barn owl that got into your back window?’

‘Hey, mate, it’s more empirical than a napkin doodle.’

‘I’m not in the habit of pulling out a camera whenever I see a goblin,’ Draco says, sliding his finished drawing back to Nicolas. ‘But here you go. The naturalist in me wants to give you an accurate representation.’

Nicolas opens his phone again and looks closely between the napkin and his photograph, frowning. ‘Where have you seen goblins?’

‘The bank, mostly.’

Nicolas narrows his eyes and gives Draco an unimpressed glare. ‘Stop fucking with me. I take this stuff seriously.’

Draco laughs. ‘I’m not!’

‘You are. You’re spreading sensationalised, stereotypical representations which are rooted in antisemitism and clearly betray the biases of the societies which popularised them.’

‘Give me the napkin back.’ Draco snatches the napkin. He scrunches it up and drops it on the empty, cream smeared plate in front of him.

‘Do I not get to call you werewolf guy any more?’ Nicolas asks after a moment. ‘Given you’re here on a completely normal, waning moon weekday.’

‘I told you my name so that you’d stop calling me that anyway.’

‘But you are off your usual schedule.’

‘Guess so.’ Draco props his chin on his hand. ‘I had a pretty awful afternoon.’

‘Did the cake help?’

Draco can’t help but smile and meet Nicolas’ eyes. ‘Yes,’ he says honestly. ‘Do you want some of this slice? I’ll be sick if I keep going.’

Nicolas picks up a spare spoon from the cutlery set at the end of the table. ‘Go on, I’d just be eating it out the back when you’ve gone anyway.’

This must make it categorically the worst day of Draco’s recent life. He has been swindled by a dodgy warlock, outed as a werewolf to Harry Potter, and now he is sharing a stupid muggle cake with a stupid beautiful muggle who is flicking through his stupid muggle phone looking for photos of this stupid definitely-not-a-goblin and asking Draco which ones he thinks should go on his stupid blog.

Draco should not be teasing and laughing along with Nicolas and knocking his hand out of the way to get another bite of the raspberry slice before it’s all gone. And he should absolutely not be feeling the dreadful weight of the day getting lighter from his shoulders as he does so.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco spends three days waiting in anxious anticipation. Then he spends three days in confused apprehension. Then he spends a few more days in generally nervous preoccupation. Then a week and a half has passed and the Daily Prophet has not run a single story about the fact that the Malfoy heir is a werewolf. He has heard nothing. From nobody. Not even from Potter himself.

Finally, nearly two weeks after bumping into Potter in Diagon Alley, Draco is lounging in his living room in the late afternoon in an uneasy malaise when he receives an owl. The letter is brief, concise and discrete:

 _Draco,_ it reads.

_Hope you are well. It is always good to hear about past students. I’ve spoken to Harry and I’d like to meet up for a chat some time, if you’re free._

_You can always contact me by owl._

_Warm regards,_

_Remus Lupin._

Draco stares at the letter for a solid minute after he has read it. He feels simultaneously like something sick and heavy is sinking in his stomach and, somewhat, a weight is lifting off him.

It appears that Potter has told Lupin, and only Lupin. Or at least not spilled it to the press. Which is a relief to a degree. But on the other hand, Draco is now receiving correspondence from a werewolf. That alone is enough to raise suspicions about him or his sympathies.

He incinerates the letter with a poke of his wand and does not respond. He does not need to _chat_ with anyone about this. He has been dealing with it alone for eight years and he has been handling it flawlessly. He has never missed a dose of his potion. He has never been seen, heard, sniffed out or whispered about. If more werewolves could pull themselves together and overcome their natures, like him, perhaps they would be deserving of a chance to live like real wizards.

But Draco is the exception, not the rule. Accept _help_ from Remus Lupin? Who put himself in charge of children with his condition? Who attended school as an unmedicated werewolf? Who has the nerve to put wizards at risk and then advocate for others like him, as though they are worthy of equal rights?

Draco snorts. No, he will go it alone, thanks. It has worked just fine so far.

 

*

 

In the week leading up to the full moon Draco takes his potion every morning, as always. One long swallow to start the day, washed down with a cup of tea. He goes about his business as usual. Buts a few interesting trinkets from dodgy wizards who procured them from muggle homes and need someone to take them off their hands. He stocks up on ingredients for wolfsbane, staggering this. He buys some batches of ingredients months in advance, mixed in with an array of innocuous ingredients. The most identifying elements he sources from a range of sellers so that no one can put it together.

He only does one small thing differently this month to any other. It is vain and it is painfully transparent. It is pretty close to admitting that he wants Nicolas to think he looks good; which is stupid, because no matter what, Draco is going to look and feel like a hungover flobberworm in the morning. But he lays out an outfit for himself. He spends too long weighing up what he owns that is comfortable, and stylish, and muggle enough to go out in public. He only stops when he is forced to tell himself, out loud, that he’s being _pathetic_ , and he folds up a soft pair of harem pants and a long black jumper. They sit on the chair next to his window. Then—with the sun going down outside—undresses and waits on his bed.

The transformations are always agonizingly painful and this month is no exception. Draco has tried taking pain-numbing potions before the moon rises in the past, but they did nothing at all. When it is over, he curls up on the bed, digging into the blankets until he is warm and comfortable. Sleeps as well as he can with every scent and sound prickling at him, enhanced. Even retaining his own mind he still feels, physiologically, like a wolf. His body wants to hunt, to eat.

But he won’t.

In the morning every bone in his body breaks and reforms itself, every muscle contorts, every inch of skin burns, and then it is over. Draco lies on the bed for a long time, panting from the pain, head pounding, sweat cooling on his skin.

Then he gets up, pulls on his clothes, and goes to the café so that he can eat his body weight in fried food.

‘Right on time,’ Nicolas says as Draco approaches the counter. ‘You had me wondering if you were going to show up today.’

Draco pushes his hair back off his face and blinks. ‘I have every month for the past two years, haven’t I?’

‘When you put it like that.’ Nicolas turns to the coffee machine. ‘Full Moon Special?’

Looking skyward, Draco nods. He shuffles along the counter and watches Nicolas make his coffees. Even though the ground is shifting under his feet and everything is slightly blurry, he does not quite feel like heading to his table yet.

Nicolas finishes off the first coffee, shaking a cannister of cream, and slides it around the machine to Draco. He picks up another mug and wipes it out with a cloth. ‘Werewolf question,’ he says and turns a valve on the machine so that steam hisses out. ‘Where do you go to hang out?’  

‘Excuse me?’ Draco asks, offended, coffee halfway to his lips.

‘Me and a couple of the guys off this forum I’m on,’ Nicolas continues, seeming to miss Draco’s tone. ‘We’re trying to organise a camping trip to see if we can find any evidence of werewolves or anything next month. Head up to the Yorkshire Dales or somewhere, you know?’

‘You are going _looking_ for werewolves?’

‘Also for moose-pigs. We’ve got good leads on that front though. But I’m not sure where to start with werewolves, so I thought I’d ask the one I know. What do you do? Get out of the city? Away from human settlements?’

Draco rubs his temples. ‘You will be _out_ , deliberately looking for _werewolves_ , on the full moon?’

Nicolas laughs. ‘No! Fuck, no, we’re not bloody stupid. Thinking like a day or two after the full moon, when evidence or tracks might still be fresh. It’s for my—’

‘For your blog,’ finishes Draco. He takes a long drink from his coffee and closes his eyes. ‘Right.’

‘I do appreciate your concern for my safety,’ Nicolas says cheerfully. ‘It’s better than, _“Nico, get it through your thick skull: werewolves aren’t real.”_ Pfft. Hear that enough, right?’

‘They’re not real,’ Draco says quickly. ‘But if they _were,_ they tend to inhabit forests, uh, a bit further north than Yorkshire.’

‘Oh! Do you…?’

‘I stay home,’ Draco says. ‘Because I’m not a werewolf.’

‘Do you have like, a cage in your bedroom or something?’

‘I don—’

‘That wouldn’t necessarily have to be for werewolf stuff, though?’ Nicolas laughs, then goes bright red. ‘Oops. Really not meant to say that sort of stuff to customers.’

‘Please get me your manager,’ Draco begs, but he can feel a smirk tugging the corner of his lips.

‘I just meant—do you have a puppy you’re crate training?’ Nicolas tries, glancing over his shoulder to check none of his co-workers heard him.

‘Nice try.’

‘Go sit down,’ groans Nicolas. ‘I’ll bring these over. Just leave me to die of embarrassment.’

‘Be sure to get me my breakfast before you keel over,’ Draco replies, finishing off his coffee and leaving it behind on the counter.

Despite feeling like he has been hit by the night bus, and despite his eyes throbbing with exhaustion, and despite the aching feeling inside him that he could devour an entire cow—Draco sits down feeling unusually pleased and smiles to himself.

‘Please don’t go looking for werewolves,’ he tell Nicolas when the rest of his breakfast arrives. ‘I am rather fond of your being in one piece.’

‘Is that an invitation to join you on the full moon instead? Let me document a real live transformation?’

‘Who says you would leave that encounter unravished?’ Draco murmurs, then buries his face in his hands. ‘Ugghh.’

‘Gosh,’ says Nicolas.

‘Shut up.’

‘I’m scandalised.’

‘I _will_ tell your manager about your kinky sex cage,’ Draco threatens, peeking through his fingers, cheeks hot.

 

*

 

Later that morning, Draco starts a fresh batch of wolfsbane. He hates that it always needs to start brewing while he feels like this. Broken. Exhausted. But the potion takes the entire moon cycle to brew, so it cannot be left even a day without missing a dose of the potion, and missing a dose would be disaster.

Draco prepares the ingredients diligently, slowly, carefully—double and triple checking everything as he does so. Brewing this potion may be second nature to him, but there’s no room to get lazy. Nothing is out of the ordinary, except for the fact his wolfsbane seems fresher than usual. Wearing his most flexible dragon-hide gloves, Draco delicately de-stems the flowers. He removes the firm stalks from inside the long petals and chops them finely, noticing an excess of blue staining on his chopping board. This does not strike him as a problem. In general, the fresher the ingredient, the more potent the potion. Draco carries on, slicing the monkshood roots and collecting the other ingredients. He adds them one by one to the small cauldron.

It is not until a week later, when the potion has turned an alarming inky black colour rather than the deep blue that it is meant to be, that Draco realises that perhaps potency in a deadly toxin is not actually ideal for something this delicate that he is planning on ingesting.

‘Fuck,’ he says loudly and with emphasis.

 

*

 

Draco gives himself one day to panic, one day to attempt to fix this. He can’t. Wolfsbane is not the sort of potion where you can just drop in a few counter-ingredients if something goes wrong—but he tries anyway. He does everything he can think of to mend the potion but by the time the sun goes down, it is beyond useless. It probably isn’t poisonous any more, but that is the best he can say about it. There is no chance that it will work.

Standing in the kitchen and gnawing at his fingernail, Draco stares at his cauldron, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. He fucked up. He _fucked up._ Eight years of perfect brewing and here, now, for no reason whatsoever, he has fucked up and he is done.

He considers his options. He could give Nicolas’ comment about a cage a try: lock himself up. But what if he breaks out? Could he? How would he know for sure? And besides, the thought of not having control, of not retaining his mind… he can’t do that. He _can’t._ It is not an option.

So he needs wolfsbane. He could buy it. Black market. Obliviate the seller, perhaps. It would be risky. He would prefer to avoid the chance of anyone finding out who doesn’t know already.

_Who doesn’t know already._

Draco groans. There is, in fact, one werewolf out there who must have access to wolfsbane and already knows of Draco’s condition. He is loathe to ask for help, but…

But it does lower the risk. Remus Lupin is unlikely to be interested in blackmailing him or getting his secret out. And he _must_ have a regular supply. And… and he did say that Draco could contact him if needed.

Pacing the kitchen, Draco weighs it up. Every other option is worse. By far.

He swears under his breath. He got too confident. At first, he brewed months in advance, in a larger cauldron so that he had a supply as backup. He did that all through Hogwarts, when he had the Room of Hidden Things. He would take home the surplus potion over the summer holidays and get by on that at home. It was an effective system. But when he returned to the manor after school he did not have the leisure of space and secrecy, so he started brewing one month at a time, in a smaller cauldron. That way it was easier to hide.

And then when he moved here, it was just more convenient. He had never messed up the potion, so he thought…

Stupid.

He cannot put his problem into a letter, so instead he owls Lupin that he would like to meet for a conversation. He should get this out of the way. There is always the chance that Lupin, like him, does not keep a stockpile of the potion. If that is the case, he will be forced to work out an alternative.

Lupin’s reply comes the following day. The letter tells him to come visit and includes a home address. Draco may be imagining it, but the letter seems a touch terse, which may have something to do with Draco never replying to the initial olive branch.

He does not waste time. He pulls on some robes over his day clothes and apparates to the address.

It is a nice, if modest, town-house in Tufnell Park. A small garden out front that is barely more than a patch of slightly overgrown grass next to a path of black and white diamond tiles that lead to a blue door.

With a deep breath, Draco raises his fist and knocks.

Remus Lupin looks, as per usual, like the worst Draco expects from a half-blood and a werewolf. His hair—almost entirely grey, now—is unbrushed, flyaway curls falling into his eyes. His wand is tucked behind his ear. His face is marked with old scars and there are exhausted shadows around his eyes. He is wearing a long cable-knit jumper and pyjama pants, even though it is almost noon.

The floor of the hallways behind him is littered with a child’s toys. It is unclear if Lupin has given up on keeping the house tidy or if it was simply never a priority to begin with.

‘Come in, Draco,’ he says. ‘Tea?’

Draco steps carefully over a toy truck as he follows Lupin up the hall. ‘… Yes, thank you.’

Over his shoulder, Lupin says, ‘I only have until three. I’ll need to go pick Teddy up from school.’

Draco cocks his head. ‘School?’ That can’t be right, surely. ‘How old is he?’

‘Six.’ Lupin leads him to an open door at the far end of the hall which leads to a sunlit, cosy, but also very messy, kitchen. He gestures to the table for Draco to take a seat and says, ‘Just push stuff out of the way, it’s Tonks’ work.’ Sensing Draco’s confusion, he adds: ‘Teddy attends muggle primary school.’

Draco sits at the table and stacks some of the array of papers in front of him off to the side while Lupin puts on the kettle. ‘You’re not teaching him at home?’

Lupin chuckles. ‘Nah. We want him to be with other kids and learn, you know, maths.’

‘But he is…’ How to say this tactfully? ‘…As he should be?’ (Missed by a mile, something at the back of his brain helpfully supplies.)

Giving him a dry look, Lupin says, ‘He is a wizard.’

‘And he’s not…?’

‘Like you and I?’

‘Like you, yes.’

Lupin raises an eyebrow. ‘He takes after his mother.’

‘Well, that certainly can’t be easy either,’ Draco comments, causing Lupin to snort.

‘We’ve had some long talks about lying low at school. He is only allowed to change his hair once a month. His classmates just think we’re the coolest mum and dad ever.’

‘Right.’

Lupin pours out two mugs of tea and brings them over to the table, setting one down in front of Draco. It is swirling dark brown, less milk than Draco prefers, but he doesn’t say anything. Lupin’s voice hardens as he asks, ‘So, what brings you here, Draco?’

Staring into the tea, Draco tenses. He swallows. ‘I messed up my wolfsbane potion this month,’ he says, voice crisp. Off like a plaster. Get it over with. ‘I came to ask if you keep an extra supply. I will buy some off you, just for this, this month.’

Lupin eyes him, blowing on his drink. ‘Hm.’

‘It has never happened before. I’ve been making it for years, but this time…’

‘It’s a hard potion,’ Lupin says. ‘Always been outside my capabilities. I’m impressed that this is only the first time it’s gone wrong for you.’

Draco scowls. ‘It’s not outside _my_ capabilities.’

‘Usually,’ Lupin points out, with a smirk.

Draco scowls harder and takes a deep drink of tea to suppress it. ‘Can you help me or not?’ he asks when Lupin doesn’t say anything else.

‘I can.’ Fingers tapping on the table, Lupin seems to be thinking. ‘I have a request, though.’

‘I already said I would pay.’

‘No, I don’t want money.’

Draco glances around at the small room. The window frame is flecked with chipped paint and the stove is old. ‘Are you sure?’ Then he sighs. ‘You want me to push some sort of nonsense werewolf rights act through the Wizengamot, don’t you?’

‘Oh, there’s an idea,’ Lupin says. ‘Not remotely what I was going to ask, but I mean, if you have some spare time and influence…’

‘No, I don’t,’ Draco says, not untruthfully. Time, he has. Influence he ought to ration. He has bought himself good will by throwing gold at pretty much every objectively, universally good program or proposal that comes up (usually spearheaded, irritatingly, by Granger). But this is just a band-aid solution, and he is not about to waste any sway he has on something that might shine a spotlight on himself. ‘What do you actually want, then?’

‘I’d like it if you would join me this full moon,’ Lupin says mildly.

Draco jerks back in his chair. ‘What? Why?’

‘Company.’ Lupin puts down his mug. ‘Sirius and I have some long-standing monthly traditions, but you would be welcome to join us.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Draco says immediately. ‘What are these traditions? Are they dangerous? Are they… weird?’

‘Er, probably weird, yes. Nothing to be alarmed by. We turn into dogs and eat old leftovers from Sirius and Harry’s fridge, mostly.’

Draco pulls a face. ‘That sounds awful.’

‘You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when you’ve eaten six week old Pad Thai as a wolf.’

‘Why in Merlin’s name would you want me involved in your disgusting hobbies?’

Lupin looks sympathetic. ‘Because Harry told me who did this to you, and we have something in common.’

‘Of course. _Potter_.’ He groans, running a hand through his hair and frowning. ‘Greyback turned plenty of people, as you are well aware. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Still. I would like to make sure that you’re not… isolated. It is very lonely, growing up like this. I’ll take you to get your wolfsbane regardless, of course, but I would appreciate it if you would indulge me.’   

It _is_ lonely, Draco thinks. Because he does it alone. By choice. That is the way he likes it. He prefers to keep his transformations private. The last thing he wants is to spend a full moon with his old teacher and a former Azkaban inmate, enduring them romping around as dogs and doing whatever gross dog things they do. Would Potter be there? Potter would probably be there, wouldn’t he?

But, he is asking for something and he has no intention of being in anyone’s debt. ‘Just one full moon?’ he asks wearily.

‘If you’re not tempted to come back for more mouldy pasta, at least.’

‘I really won’t be,’ Draco insists. Shoulders slumping, he exhales. ‘Yes. Fine. Anything. I just need the potion.’

‘Good.’ Lupin drains his tea and moves to his feet. ‘Let’s go, then.’ He glances at his watch. ‘We better get a move on, I can’t be late for pick up. The other parents get _very_ judgemental, and they still have a problem with me for my terrible macarons at the last bake-sale.’

Draco doesn’t finish his tea—it’s too bitter for him anyway. Leaving the mug half-empty behind him, he follows Lupin from the room and back toward the front door. ‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

 

*

 

They are going to Grimmauld Place, because _of course they are._

 _‘Potter_ makes your wolfsbane?’ Draco asks in disbelief after they have apparated and they are crossing the square outside the house. ‘You _trust_ him with it?’

‘Hasn’t let me down so far,’ Lupin says.

‘But he’s—’ Draco splutters. ‘He’s terrible at potions.’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘Which one of us endured six years of classes with him?’ Draco asks, and catches a flash of Lupin’s grin as he walks ahead of him and climbs the low steps to the front entrance. ‘Granted, by sixth year he may not have been an _absolute_ disaster, but wolfsbane isn’t a potion you leave to a simpleton who barely scrapes through with Granger’s help.’

‘Oh dear, my mistake then.’ Lupin lets himself in through the front door without knocking. He calls out into the house. ‘Padfoot? Harry?’ Stepping into the hall, he gestures for Draco to follow him inside.

Hesitantly, Draco does. He looks around, repulsed. What have they _done_ to this place? It barely feels like the heritage wizarding home it is supposed to be at all. He can see into the living room (and there should be a wall there to begin with, how gauche), and they have installed a wide, objectionable flat-screen television on the wall above the fireplace. On the floor in front of it sits a slim, black, er—something. Draco thinks it is a video game thing. There are two controllers lying beside it and a stack of CD cases. Whatever it is, it does not belong inside the ancient and most noble house of Black.

Black’s voice carries down from upstairs. ‘Moony, that you?’

‘I have Draco with me,’ Lupin calls back, and Draco has to suppress the urge to hush him—as though he just announced to all of London what he is.

There is a moment of silence. Then Draco hears a rhythmic _thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk_ that tells him someone is hurrying down the stairs. Potter appears on the landing above them and leans out over the the railing, looking confused and a bit alarmed, his hair flying everywhere and glasses slipping down his nose.

‘Malfoy,’ he says.

‘Potter.’

Lupin says, ‘Why don’t you tell Harry what you need?’

Draco glowers. _I would prefer not to_ , he wants to say—but that is discomfitingly close to childishly whining and asking Lupin to say it for him. ‘I hear you make wolfsbane,’ he says.

Potter’s posture relaxes, and he rests his elbow on the bannister. He props his chin on his hand. ‘I hear you do too.’

‘Yes—well.’ Draco rolls his eyes. ‘I fucked up, didn’t I?’

Potter croons. ‘Aw, that’s okay. We all make mistakes.’

‘Don’t enjoy this.’

Potter grins and waves Draco and Lupin upstairs. ‘Come on then,’ he says. ‘We’ve got plenty.’

With a deep breath through his nose, Draco slowly exhales. He waits for Lupin to begin climbing the stairs before reluctantly following.

Potter’s house is saccharine. The walls on the way up to the second floor assault Draco with dozens of framed photographs of Potter, Granger, Weasley, the rest of the Weasley clan, Lupin, his wife and their technicolour toddler, Black and Potter laughing together at the beach—and naturally, several older photos of a couple who are unmistakably Potter’s parents: dancing together, playing with a baby Potter together, hugging Black and Lupin in front of a Christmas tree together.

Draco scowls at the pictures and tries not to look jealous.

On the landing, Potter waves them over to a door at the end of the hallway. It leads to the bathroom.

‘Is this a joke?’ Draco peeks inside the tiny room. It is dominated by a large brass bathtub under an open window. Despite his cynicism, the room does smell undeniably of wolfsbane and (peeking inside) Draco can see that the tub is bubbling away with a very familiar deep blue concoction. ‘You know what?’ Draco says. ‘I might risk Knockturn Alley.’

‘Relax, I’ve made it in here for years. You’re so uptight.’

‘Precise,’ Draco corrects him. ‘A trait, I might add, rather essential for potion making.’

‘Take a look.’ Potter gestures to the cauldron. ‘Tell me if there is anything wrong with it.’

Shooting him a dark look, Draco steps over to the tub and inspects the potion closely. He sniffs it, watches the way the colour changes in the light, the formation of the smoke rising off the surface. It is, undeniably…

‘Fine. It’s fine.’

‘Right!’ Potter holds out a hand. ‘Now pass me some of those vials from the shelf and I’ll sort you out a week of it.’

Draco turns. He stares at the shelf for nearly five seconds and says, ‘By “vial”, do you mean “empty peanut butter jar”?’

‘They’re clean.’

‘I—That wasn’t—’ Draco shakes his head but reaches out for one of the jars. The label peels under his fingers. ‘I mean, why?’

A touch defensively, ‘We go through a lot of peanut butter.’

Draco decides it is not worth probing further.

The jars do the trick, at least. One is a little more than the exact dosage he needs to take per day, so within a few minutes Potter has ladled a serve of potion into each container, sealed the lid with the spell, and passed them one by one to Draco so that he is precariously holding seven peanut butter jars through of swirling sapphire wolfsbane in his arms. He looks down at them.

‘Thanks,’ he says, biting back his pride to get the word out.

‘No problem,’ Potter replies and turns to Lupin. ‘Want yours now too? Or you’ll just come ‘round closer to it, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I need my ergonomic bottle,’ Lupin says wryly. ‘How else will Sharon be able to ask me probing questions about my monthly cleanse?’

‘Not Sharon again.’ Draco jumps as he hears Black’s voice suddenly at the door. ‘Isn’t she the one convinced that you and me used to be in that band and we’ve both retired to shack up with our favourite groupies?’

‘She’s spread it around the other mums,’ sighs Lupin. ‘It’s common knowledge now. I think Tonks encouraged it.’

Potter is perched on the rim of the bathtub, and he grins at his godfather and teases, ‘I don’t mind being your groupie.’ He stands up and elbows his way past Draco to pull Black into a showy, though thankfully brief, kiss. ‘I’m a big Stubby Boardman fan.’

‘Can I go?’ asks Draco. He finds himself thoroughly ignored.

Against Potter’s lips, Black mutters, ‘I still don’t see the resemblance.’ He pulls away, frowning. ‘I could have my own band, you know. I’d be good in a band.’

‘You do have a lovely singing voice,’ Lupin agrees, leaning against the wall.

Why they’re all standing in the bathroom, and why Potter is playfully toying with his godfather’s long hair, and why this is all happening to him—these are all questions that are lost on Draco.

‘I can’t disapparate,’ he says. ‘Not carrying all these. I really want to though.’

‘I’ll support you no matter what,’ Potter says, still pressing disgustingly close to Black. ‘Start a band, and I’ll be your biggest fan.’

‘Something to carry the jars in,’ Draco begs. ‘Then I could leave. Or even just get out of the doorway, that would be—’ He looks desperately at Lupin. ‘How do you stand this?’

‘A lifetime of practice,’ he replies, apparently unbothered.  

‘You can get a kiss too if you like,’ Black tells Lupin. ‘On the condition you agree to whatever I want to name our band and let me be front man.’

‘Was that ever in question?’ Lupin asks. ‘Come on. Both of you, move so Draco can leave.’

‘Oh, right!’ Potter jumps to the side as if only just remembering Draco was there—but Draco can see him smirking, so he glares daggers and shoves past him out into the hall.

Before he can get down to the front door and escape he hears Potter call out from the top of the stairs. ‘Hold on!’

Draco turns slowly. ‘What?’

‘I don’t like you, and I want nothing to do with you.’

‘Good, we’re agreed.’

‘ _But,_ for _this_ , if you ever need wolfsbane, we always keep extra. Alright? The door is open.’

Potter’s expression is extremely sincere and it makes Draco want to brush him off. He wishes Potter wouldn’t, generally. Pull him from a burning death. Make out with him in the back of a bar, that once. Offer him help when he _doesn’t need it._

‘I won’t fuck up my wolfsbane again,’ he says with conviction. ‘Not for another eight years, at least.’

Potter smiles. ‘We can hope,’ he agrees.

 

*

 

Draco goes home after that. He stacks the jars of potion in his cupboard and frowns at them for a while before vanishing the mess of what is left of his own failed attempt from the cauldron on his stove top.

He can relax, he tells himself. Problem solved. Solved annoyingly, yes, but solved nonetheless. Beggars can’t be choosers—and Draco is fortunate enough not be literally begging, to be an outcast from wizarding society.

Sinking down onto the floor, he lets out a breath. The kitchen tiles are cool beneath him, grounding. Pristinely clean, not like Lupin’s chaotic kitchen, covered in clutter. The only clutter Draco keeps are the items in his collections, and they are organised and restrained to one room. He also, unlike Potter, doesn’t feel the need to plaster a hundred photographs of his friends and loved ones to every single vertical surface.

Draco snorts.

 _‘It’s very lonely,’_ Lupin said. Nonsense. Draco was lonely before this happened. If he hadn’t been lonely, this would never have been his life. This wasn’t _supposed_ to be his life. He doesn’t want them to pity him. They don’t know him.

He stays on the floor for a while, thinking, until he can feel his thoughts swirling darkly in directions he doesn’t want to address—so he stands up and decides to visit his parents for dinner. Potter isn’t the only one with family.


	4. Chapter 4

Because it always does, the full moon approaches before it is welcome. Draco drinks his potion every day and plucks the labels off each and every peanut butter jar as he does so in nervous, irritable compulsion. He has a vague, irrational concern that Potter’s wolfsbane isn’t going to work, even though he can tell that it is perfectly brewed.

On the day before the full moon, Lupin writes him to ask if he will still meet them at Grimmauld Place and Draco grudgingly agrees that yes, he will be there. He cannot deny he’s almost curious to see another werewolf change—but his skin is crawling with discomfort at the idea of someone else seeing _him._

He drinks his last dose of wolfsbane in the morning and then puts off heading out of the house as long as he can. He feels miserable, like he is coming down with a flu. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he sees what looks like a ghost of already pale skin washed out and grey. Monochrome. Platinum hair, grey skin, grey eyes, grey lips. All very familiar. He spends the day curled up in bed with a book, blended into ivory sheets, feeling sorry for himself. Inevitably, after he has eaten a small dinner with no appetite at all (it will be back with a vengeance in the morning), the sun starts to sink low in the sky and he’s forced to leave the house.

He apparates straight to Grimmauld Place and waits uncomfortably until the moon rises. Sitting at the far end of the long kitchen table where Potter, Black and Lupin are sharing a bottle of wine and finishing their dinner, he props his chin on his fist and stares moodily at the wall. He takes comfort in Lupin looking just about as haggard as Draco feels and, when he catches Draco’s eye with a tired smile, he twitches his lips sympathetically in return.

Although he would quite enjoy a drink, he doesn’t feel quite like he could keep alcohol down. So when Potter finally remembers his bloody manners and offers him a glass, he turns it down.

Quietly, he asks Lupin, ‘Does it get better?’

Lupin is halfway through his glass of Shiraz, but has hardly touched his meal.

‘Sort of,’ he replies. ‘Maybe you just get used to it.’

As the moon rises and the feeling of his skin not fitting any longer begins to itch at Draco, Potter stands up. He dunks all the dishes in the sink, where they begin to clean themselves, kisses Black and announces, ‘Alright, I’ll leave you lot to it.’

‘Where are you going?’ Draco asks sharply.

Potter blinks at him. ‘I dunno, to bed? I’m not going to stay here and watch these two eat mouldy crap from the back of our fridge, you’re on your own.’

This alarms Draco. ‘But—’

‘Good night,’ Potter says. ‘Don’t howl too loudly.’

Black and Lupin, when they transform, are like puppies. It is extremely irritating. Draco wants to tell them that they are grown men and grown men should not wrestle on the floor, snapping playfully at one another, or groom each other all over, tails wagging frantically. But he can’t, so he yips at them once and climbs up onto the couch to curl up.

When Lupin puts his two front paws on the cushion and nudges Draco with his nose, Draco snaps at him in a clear gesture. _Leave me alone._

He regrets it a moment later when Black growls, low and menacing.

Draco is a small wolf, and the enormous black dog outsizes him by a significant amount. Black is somewhat intimidating at the best of times, so when his hackles rise and his long teeth bare in a snarl, Draco can’t help but sink back, flattening his body to the cushion.

Lupin turns to Black, completely unintimidated—of course, he’s the one Black is protecting—and makes a disapproving growl low in his throat before jumping on Black, again playfully, and knocking him to the floor until they are both, once more, distracted by their stupid dog games.

Draco shifts around to face away from both of them, scratches into the cushions to build a comfortable spot, and closes his eyes.

But when Lupin and Black both bark at him and exit the room, chasing each other down the stairs from the sounds of it, Draco reluctantly stretches and follows. He does not participate in this unholy ritual of gobbling down garbage from the fridge but he can attest that it is truly disgusting to watch. Black knocks out some plastic containers of curry that have pale green mould growing like a fuzz over them. The containers fall on the floor, because dog paws are not dexterous, but the two of them clean the mess up entirely, licking up every last morsel of food.

When Lupin looks at Draco and nudges one of the half-full plastic containers towards him, Draco backs up several paces. It does, unfortunately, smell very tempting. Tempting enough that he curls his lips over long teeth, repulsed by how much he wants to taste it.

He regrets agreeing to this, he decides. Lupin and Black have both tired themselves out and eaten a lot of rubbish and Draco has been at a distance, watching them, for hours. If he were at home he would be more or less comfortably asleep by now. Despite Lupin’s words about wanting Draco to not be isolated, this has to be the loneliest he has ever felt at the full moon.

He is not like these dogs. He is not like Lupin, a werewolf who takes joy in his transformations. While he may not inhabit them as cruelly as Greyback did, he embraces them in his own way. And Draco has no desire to follow suit.

Finally, Black and Lupin curl up on the floor together, back in the living room upstairs. Black spreads out on the rug, stretched out on his side. Lupin sleeps behind him, head resting on Black’s long neck, paws framing his head. Blinking one yellow eye open at Draco, Lupin makes a soft sound that is meant to be an invitation.

Draco ignores him. This might be what dogs do—sleep together for warmth and bonding and what have you. But they are not wolves, not really. Draco will not play act like these two.

He jumps up onto the large chair next to the empty fireplace, pulls a blanket over himself with his teeth and finally sleeps—fitfully in this unfamiliar room in this unfamiliar house.

 

*

 

In the morning his bones snap. Snap and break, and he feels like he is on fire as his skin reshapes itself. When he opens his eyes, vision blurred from pain, he can see Lupin’s figure hunched over on the floor near his chair, Black kneeling next to him, human shaped, rubbing his back. They are both naked. So is Draco, to be fair, but at last he has a blanket to cover himself with.

‘Well that was fun,’ groans Draco without sincerity.

‘You’re as tetchy as a wolf as you are as a person,’ Black tells him.

Draco scowls.

‘Coffee,’ Lupin croaks.

‘I’ll get you one.’ Black stretches, cracking his spine, apparently unashamed of his body. Draco notes the hodgepodge of ugly tattoos decorating his skin with distaste. The worst, probably, is a small one on his hip: a shaky dog’s bone that looks like it was done by a child with a needle. ‘Malfoy. Want a coffee?’

Draco blinks. Yes, yes he does. But he knows where he wants it from. ‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I’m going to go get breakfast.’

Lupin looks at him a bit like he has just recited a prophecy. ‘Breakfast,’ he says, voiced hushed in revelation.

‘I’m going to make you eggs and toast, Moony,’ Black says. ‘Like usual.’

‘Well _I_ need at least seven sausages and a fry up,’ Draco says. ‘So, where are my clothes?’

‘I’m coming.’ Lupin shakily gets to his feet, looking around for his own trousers. He seems disoriented, squinting at the floor in a daze.

Draco rearranges his blanket so that it is safety covering as much of his body as possible. He can’t quite bring himself to move, yet. Instead he watches Lupin stumble around the living room out of the corner of his eye, pulling on clothes with some help from Black, who seems offended.

‘What’s wrong with my eggs and toast?’ he mutters as he helps Lupin with the buttons on his cardigan, which Lupin has done up in the wrong order.

‘Nothing, except the eggs,’ Lupin mutters around a yawn.

‘What’s wrong with my eggs?’

‘They’re overcooked. And somehow too watery? I don’t know how you do it.’

‘You’ve been eating them for years.’

‘Don’t get upset, Pads. You know I’d eat _anything_ this morning,’ Lupin says fairly.

‘I’m not upset!’ Black says, clearly upset. ‘You’ve never said anything.’

‘I knew you’d get upset about it.’ Lupin nudges Black away and pulls on his socks. ‘Harry makes great eggs, get him to help you.’

‘I’m going up to bed,’ Black grumbles, turning to the stairs. ‘Have fun with your traitor’s breakfast.’

Lupin turns to look at Draco, who buries himself slightly deeper in his blanket. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I am going to my usual café,’ Draco says. ‘I don’t want company.’

‘Is it far?’

‘It’s near my house.’

‘What do they make?’

‘Just café things,’ Draco says. ‘Nothing special. You can go literally anywhere else.’

‘There must be something special if you’re this keen to get there,’ Lupin points out. ‘

Draco feels his cheeks go pink. ‘I’m not _keen_ , just hungry.’ Lupin keeps looking at him, one eyebrow rising slowly as Draco’s face gets hotter and hotter. ‘Leave the room so I can get dressed,’ he adds quickly.

Lupin pauses for a moment, looking vaguely amused, before turning and walking out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. Draco huffs and stands up, keeping his blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he pulls his clothes on. He is wearing the same things as yesterday, which feels gross, and he summons a little magic from his exhausted bones to cast a quick cleaning spell on his shirt. His cardigan is long and robe-like, so he wraps it around his body against the chill and steps out into the hall.

‘Fine, let's go,’ he says to Lupin, not making eye contact with him and heading straight for the front door.

 

*

 

‘Hey, look at this!’ Nicolas says as Draco steps into the shop, Lupin following a few paces behind him. ‘Got the whole werewolf pack today, have we?’

This, Draco thinks is precisely what he would have liked to avoid. He hears Lupin suck in a surprised gasp behind him and looks sharply over his shoulder to see him opening his mouth to speak. Draco shakes his head. Then has to fight back a sudden, brutal wave of nausea, feeling like his brain is a loose bag of marbles inside his skull.

He groans, bending over and catching himself on his knees.

‘Draco, you alright?’ Nicolas asks, leaning across the counter. ‘Don’t vomit.’

‘I’m not going to,’ Draco mumbles. He pushes himself upright and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. Squints at Nicolas. He looks especially nice today, wild hair growing out a bit too long and pulled up into a loose bun, a few frizzy curls framing his handsome face. He is wearing a loose t-shirt which still manages to strain across his broad shoulders. It looks old: the print is faded, but it says _THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE_ with a picture of a UFO. Draco rubs his eyes. ‘Ugh, stop looking so worried.’

‘You look like you’re gonna go face first to the ground. I know what you’re getting, why don’t you go sit down?’

‘I’m fine,’ Draco insists. ‘And make it two.’

‘For your werewolf buddy?’ Nicolas asks.

Lupin raises an eyebrow at Draco.

‘Nicolas thinks he’s funny,’ Draco explains. ‘He won’t shut up about werewolves. He thinks they’re _cool._ ’

Lupin smiles. ‘And I quite agree.’

Nicolas beams at him and looks down at the till. ‘So I’m guessing by “two”, you mean double what you usually get? So… four full breakfasts? Six coffees?’

Draco glances at Lupin.

‘I could eat,’ Lupin says mildly.

‘Perfect,’ says Nicolas. He takes Draco’s money as he passes it over. ‘Now sit the fuck down already before you pass out.’

‘Don’t say a word,’ Draco warns Lupin as they take a seat at Draco’s usual table.

‘You think he’s teasing you,’ Lupin says quietly, half-question and half-statement. ‘That he doesn’t really think you’re a werewolf.’

‘He’s a muggle. What could he know?’

‘You never know. There’s always the chance he knows more than you are giving him credit for.’

‘Mm. He also thinks that mothman was an alien and the Queen is covering up the conspiracy.’

Lupin chuckles. ‘Are you sure he’s wrong? His track record is looking pretty good from where I’m sitting.’

Scowling, Draco tears into a napkin and glares out the window.

‘Thanks for joining us last night,’ Lupin tries after a moment.

‘I won’t be again.’

Lupin’s voice is cool. ‘That’s fine. The invitation stands, though.’

Anger rises in Draco, spitting suddenly off his tongue. ‘I don’t see why it should. You don’t want me there, you have no reason to. You have no reason to want anything to do with me.’

Curiously, Lupin tilts his head to the side and regards him. Draco recognises the look and it’s one he hates. It was the expression Lupin always wore when he asked Draco a question in school that he had no answer to. Always followed by patient, prompting questions, endlessly irritating. But this time, all he says is: ‘No?’

‘For one thing, my father tried to get criminal charges laid against you after you taught us.’

There is a scar in Lupin’s cheek which always creases when he is trying not to smile. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he says, shrugging and pulling the sleeves of his cardigan down over his hands. ‘It never went anywhere. No harm done.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Draco snaps, exhaustion loosening his tongue. ‘After your bloody tenure at Hogwarts my father had plenty of ammunition to help push through all those laws so that you and people _like_ you would never work again. If your wife wasn’t an auror and you weren’t chummy with Potter, you’d be on the streets.’

‘You’re not wrong. But things are getting better. You could help with that.’

Draco snorts. ‘Things will get _better_ for a few years, maybe, until there’s another incident. I’m not wasting my energy carrying people who will work against their own interests.’

‘They’re your interests as well.’

‘Is that why you want me to join your little _pack?’_ Draco spits the word out on a bitter, unamused laugh. He can feel discomfort twisting inside him. He never talks about this. He certainly never talks about this in public. But he is exhausted and annoyed enough that he can feel his restraint crumbling. ‘You think you can get me on side and I’ll be a good little advocate? Pureblood heir turned _monster,_ turned respectable face for a campaign for—’

He cuts himself off as Lupin’s eyes flicker over his shoulder. Biting sharply down on his tongue, Draco winces. He can feel a presence behind him.

‘Getting a bit heated, eh?’ Nicolas says, dropping off their coffees. ‘It’s barely gone eight. Tone it down to a three.’

‘How much did you hear?’ Draco asks. He glances at the coffees Nicolas has dropped off. He has stencilled little flowers onto the cream of each. With a quick look, Draco notices that Lupin’s drinks didn’t get the same treatment. This—if nothing else this morning—is satisfying.

‘What’s a pureblood?’ Nicolas asks.

‘You misheard. Don’t eavesdrop.’ Draco pulls one of the mugs towards him, looking at neither Lupin nor Nicolas. He takes a deep, warming drink and then, when he can still sense Nicolas standing expectantly at his shoulder, says, ‘…What?’

Nicolas shrugs. ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me I’m pretty but stupid or something,’ he says. ‘How am I meant to cope if I don’t get my monthly validation from your hungover babbling?’

‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ Draco replies snidely. ‘I’m well aware you’re not stupid.’

‘There it is,’ Nicolas says, and turns back to the counter. ‘I'll bring out the food in a few.’

Draco goes back to his coffee, still ignoring Lupin. At least until Lupin says, ‘I get the impression you were trying to insult him.’

‘Don't talk to me,’ Draco says. And then, when he spares Lupin a glance, ‘Why do you have one of those things?’

Lupin has a small phone in his hands, and he's peering down at the screen, tapping away at the little keypad in front of him. ‘They're very useful,’ he says. ‘Faster than owls.’

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Sirius,’ Lupin answers before putting his phone back in his pocket and adding: ‘I'm not trying to use you, Draco.’

Draco snorts. ‘Of course you are. Everyone has something they want. Mother and father want an heir. The Ministry wants someone to blame. Nicolas wants validation. You want a poster boy.’

‘No, I don't.’

‘Don't bother lying to me,’ Draco says, and looks back into his coffee, feeling hollow. ‘I learned this lesson a long time ago, I'm not making the same mistakes again.’

Lupin frowns but doesn't say anything. He just pulls his phone out again and goes back to texting as he sips at his coffee.

They sit in silence; and then they eat in silence when Nicolas drops over their breakfasts. As usual, Draco devours his food ravenously and Lupin does the same. The only conversation they share for the rest of the morning is with Nicolas, who (with nothing to do) swings by to update Draco on the goblin in his laundry and confirm that it was, in fact, a very large squirrel who was sneaking in at night to poop behind the sink.

‘You win some you lose some,’ Draco says around a mouthful of sausage. ‘Have you confessed your error on your blog yet?’

Nicolas looks edgy. ‘In the name of academic integrity I'll have to…’

‘I told you not to post the photos,’ Draco points out.

‘No, you said “please post them so you'll look like an idiot to the whole internet”.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Draco swallows and slices off a bit of toast. ‘Great. Success all around, then.’

‘What is your blog about?’ Lupin asks.

Nicolas grins from ear to ear and gestures with both hands at Lupin. ‘Thank you!’ he exclaims. He nods his head at Draco. ‘This one still hasn’t asked.’

Draco shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth. ‘I assume it’s just the ramblings of a madman,’ he manages to get out, spitting only a little toast onto his plate in the process.

‘It’s a _study_ ,’ Nicolas says pointedly. ‘Into cryptozoology.’

Draco shrugs. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

But Lupin looks very interested. ‘Oh? I’d love to read it.’

Nicolas gives Draco a very smug look.

‘You’re going to regret this,’ Draco tells Lupin as Nicolas pulls out a scrap of paper from his pocket and leans down on the table write out a website address.

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Lupin replies as he takes the paper, folding it up.

‘No, he’s absolutely right,’ Nicolas says. ‘I’m more trouble than I’m worth.’

‘Oh, I’m sure _that’s_ not true,’ Draco says automatically, and immediately deeply regrets it.

But he’s right, Draco is sure, about a lot of things. He is right that people want to use him. He is right that he can do this alone. He has no interest in navigating agendas and manipulations disguised as congeniality.

And he is right, he is also sure, that no sane person would want to read Nicolas’ blog.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Draco does not have sex often. His options are, naturally, limited. He can’t sleep with wizards, who might find out about his condition. So he sleeps with muggles, generally: not that he’ll acknowledge this. It always follows the same pattern. A muggle gay club. Plenty of drinks. Too many drinks. Then, something fast and anonymous in a bathroom or a back alley with someone passably good looking. Vague memories the next morning of dampness soaking through the knees of his trousers from kneeling on cold damp concrete or tiles. The taste of someone else on his tongue. Never getting undressed more than what can be zipped or pulled up as soon as it is done.

He usually does it on a whim. The less time spent planning for it, the easier it is to forget the moment he has gotten home and showered. He is not proud of it. He does not shag muggles by choice, after all. He shags them purely from necessity, and he would rather compartmentalise that away as much as he feasibly can.

So, tonight. Tonight is, like the rest of them, done on an impulse.

With the moon just a silver sliver in the sky, Draco feels like himself. He does not feel sick, or tired, and the next full moon is far enough off that he can ignore it. He had a pleasant afternoon at a muggle antiques auction with a handful of wizards and warlocks with whom he shares his pastimes. All of them are at least three times his age. They like him, these older wizards. Enjoy having fresh blood around, they say. That Draco keeps them young. Draco enjoys their company in turn—they are non-judgemental—but an afternoon with them always makes him painfully aware that his only friends were born before the Pure-blood Directory was published.

Therefore, when he gets home (carrying a supposedly haunted porcelain doll and a very ugly collection of tankards) Draco can’t help but feel that it is time to go out and do something young.

He usually sales pitches it to himself as a desire to get drunk and go dancing, rather than explicitly a mission to go on the pull. A shallow ruse to play: particularly on himself, the last person likely to fall for it. But that’s what he says to himself as he gets ready. He dresses in his most attractive muggle clothes (that he also doesn’t mind getting a bit filthy when it comes to it). In front of the mirror, he preens for a little too long on his hair. Pansy always used to tease him for being vain about his hair, which was rich coming from her. He feels a pang of sadness, thinking about it. Pansy was never really a good friend. She was fickle and two-faced and overly fawning and a bit of an idiot. But she was good fun. She would be a great person to go out dancing with, if they were still friends.

But they’re not.

Draco starts drinking before he leaves the house. A small dinner, some cheese and toast—because he is lazy and doesn’t want to give his stomach too much food to absorb the copious amounts of alcohol he intends to imbibe. He wants to get drunk fast and he wants to look trim. Two birds, one stone. With his cheesy toast he has two large glasses of wine and by the time he heads outside into the cool night, he feels pleasantly tipsy.

The club he heads to is somewhere he’s been multiple times before. It is big and always busy. The music is, uh. Well, Draco doesn’t know muggle music very well, but it's danceable and some of it sounds a bit like the Weird Sisters or the Hobgoblins. Draco has always been more of a Klaudia and the Owlets or Edina Batslinger kind of wizard, but witches whinging soulfully about terrible men don’t make for great club bangers, so there you go. Anyway, the vibe is pleasant. Not too skeezy, but a little bit skeezy. Skeezy enough to find a guy and suck him off in the dark toilets, but the guy will probably have good hygiene. That acceptable level of skeezy.

It does not take long for his evening to go south, however. Because of course it does. Everything Draco tries to do ends up going south.

He has been in the club a little less than twenty minutes when he finds himself pressed inside a crowd of muggles surrounding the bar and trying, with mounting irritation, to order a drink. With a few more in him he’ll be drunk enough to handle the absolute mess of bodies on the dance-floor, which is the goal. For now, though, the feeling of people crowding him in from every side is simply infuriating.

One thing that Draco never really considered about muggles, growing up, was how many of them there are. In retrospect it seems stupid. He was never sequestered away from them, after all. Most wizarding institutions are built into the infrastructure of muggle cities. But it wasn’t really until after school, after moving out of the manor, until coming to places like this—that it hit him.

There are a lot of muggles and they all may as well be right here, in this bar, elbowing him and pushing him—and he just wants to get a bloody beer.

So it doesn’t really register when someone comes up a little too close behind him. That is, until they put their hands on his shoulders, lean in close enough that Draco can feel warm breath on his skin, and growl, loud and menacing—right into the shell of his ear.

Draco lets out a loud yelp of alarm and jumps a foot in the air. He feels the breath leave his lungs and his heart thud once in his ears before seeming, sickeningly, to stop beating entirely. For a moment—just an ice cold moment—terror seizes him. But then his brain catches up and reminds him that _he’s dead, he can’t be here, he’s dead_ , and he turns on his heel to confront whoever thought it would be a good idea to sneak up on him like that.

‘What the fuck?!’ he shouts at the muggle, before realising who it is.

Nicolas is bent double with laughter, bracing himself on his knees.

A deep breath in through his nose. The muggles around Draco took a few steps back when he jumped and shrieked, but seem to have recovered already from the sudden alarm. Draco, however, can feel his pulse racing and, even as quickly as he processes the lack of actual danger, still feel breathless. ‘That wasn’t funny,’ he snaps.

Nicolas slaps his leg and looks up, still grinning. ‘Got you,’ he says, leaning in to raise his voice over the loud music. ‘Bit twitchy.’

_You would be twitchy too._

‘I wasn’t expecting my barista to try to terrorise me out of the blue, no.’

But instead of seeming at all contrite, Nicolas just smirks and looks Draco up and down. Mostly down, on account of being a solid head taller than him. ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’re out to have fun. I mean, I assume.’

Draco crosses his arms. Now that the shock has faded, he can’t quite bring himself to be pissed off—although he doesn’t want to let on that he’s rescinding indignation so easily. It’s not as though he wouldn’t do the exact same thing as Nicolas, given half the chance, and would laugh his arse off about it too.

It also helps that Nicolas is wearing a tight white vest, silver cross on a chain around his neck; his strong, dark bronze arms on full display. Distracting.

Also distracting? That he is here, looking gorgeous, at a gay club, while Draco is out trying to pull. Draco is unsure what to do about the situation. What do people usually do when they run into hospitality workers outside the structured environment in which they usually interact with them? What about when those regular interactions are about sixty percent shameless flirting, thirty-five percent werewolf discourse and only five percent actually ordering and paying for food and beverages?

‘I’m here for fun,’ Draco says hesitantly. Stiltedly, which makes it sound like he has never had fun in his life. ‘I enjoy myself. Sometimes.’

‘Are you here with friends?’

‘No.’

Nicolas grins and takes a step closer. He pushes Draco toward the bar. ‘Would it be weird if I bought you a drink?’

Draco swallows. He should turn this down. He is here to find a quick, anonymous shag—not spend the night listening to Nicolas’ conspiracy theories. But then, he’s not planning on finding a shag until he’s drunk anyway, so one or two drinks couldn’t hurt.

‘Are you with people?’ Draco asks, letting himself be manhandled through the crowd.

‘Some mates, yeah. Not sure where they’ve got to.’

That makes it better. Draco can indulge Nicolas with one drink, then slip away and leave him to his friends. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Buy me a beer.’

‘Weak.’ Nicolas shakes his head. He is standing very close. Unavoidable, really. His unshaven jaw grazes Draco’s cheek as he leans down to whisper loudly over the noise: _‘Shots, shots, shots.’_

_This_ makes Draco grin. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he says and turns to face the bar, mustering all his authority to flag someone down.

Nicolas orders. Draco isn’t sure _what_ he orders. Something dumb and muggle. The shots come out fluorescent green and Draco locks eyes with Nicolas. They slam them down together, the taste burning pleasantly in Draco’s throat. Whatever is in it, it’s strong. Nicolas got them a couple of beers on top, so finally, cool drink in hand and a sudden rush of spirits settling in his stomach with the wine earlier, Draco moves away from the bar.

‘Do you wanna dance?’ Nicolas shouts over the music as they push through the crowd in the direction of the open floor.

‘You don’t want to find your friends?’

‘Nah, they’re used to me disappearing on them for stints when we go out.’ Nicolas leans in. ‘Plus, you know me. Always excited to spot a cryptid in the wild.’

‘For the last time, I’m not a cryptid.’

‘Sure you are. You’re hot enough to be an anomaly to your species, and you’re rarely observed.’

Draco groans. ‘Is _that_ your line?’

‘It’s working, it’s working.’ Nicolas shuffles him towards the dancefloor. ‘It’s technically inaccurate, yeah, but it’s working.’

Snorting into his beer, Draco lets himself be shuffled. The fray of people is thick, here. Sweaty and constantly moving. He can’t quite deny that Nicolas is right. ‘I’ll dance if you’ll shut up,’ he offers, even though he would be quite happy for Nicolas to run his beautiful mouth all night.

This is a bad idea, he thinks as he starts to move to the beat of the pounding music. He is not stupid. Nicolas is blatantly hitting on him. But Draco does not mess around with people he is required to interact with in the future. The only time it has ever crossed his mind was that one incident with Potter, and the logic behind that had been sound. Potter is, technically, a respectable wizard and would not judge him too harshly if he found out about his condition. But Nicolas is a muggle, which is a different beast entirely. Muggles need to be disposable, if he’s going to keep shagging them at all.

_You could just dance_ , a voice in the back of his mind reminds him. _Without over-thinking it._

Seems unlikely. But the drinks are hitting him now, and under-thinking things might get easier shortly.

Nicolas is a bit of a dorky dancer, but there is confidence and charm behind it in spades and Draco can’t help but smile at him as they move together. It’s nothing too awkward, not at first. Just facing each other, near but not touching, drinking as they move to the beat, surrounded by others doing the same.

But as the night goes on, Draco finds himself failing to extricate himself from Nicolas’ company. They finish their beers, ditch the empty bottles, and keep dancing. Nicolas reaches out and takes Draco’s hand in his own, pulling him in with a cocky grin so that their bodies are close as they dance. With a few drinks in him, Draco is happy to go along with it. And then, when Nicolas suggests they do more shots, well, he’s happy to go along with that as well.

He is, devastatingly, happy to go along with most anything, because Nicolas is (and he scans the room on more than one occasion to check) undeniably the most attractive person in the bar. And he is buying Draco drinks and touching him and leaning in to murmur dumb jokes to him that keep making Draco laugh hard enough that he reaches out to touch Nicolas’ broad chest as he snickers.

And after another round of drinks Draco realises that he _needs_ to get out of this situation sooner rather than later, or not at all, because his own dancing is getting exponentially sluttier and if he wants an anonymous blowjob he is going to have to transfer that energy onto someone else _now_ or else he’ll be leading Nicolas on or, worse, actually pulling with him tonight.

The thought warms Draco right through, because he would absolutely _love_ to get on his knees for Nicolas. But that’s—he wracks his brain—that’s bad—for _some_ reason.

He decides, as he turns around and starts grinding back up against Nicolas’ body (Merlin, he’s so big, he could cover Draco so easily, lift him up, hold him down), that it’s best to be forthcoming with the situation.

‘I’m looking to have it off tonight,’ he says, tilting his head back onto Nicolas’ shoulder to be heard. The motion brings their mouths a breath apart; closer when Nicolas tilts his head, grinning.

Draco meant for that to be interpreted as _‘so I’m going to go off and find someone else to have it off with’_. But he realises almost immediately that no one would rationally take it that way as Nicolas brings his hands down to Draco’s hips and pulls him back, closer against him.

‘I’m not opposed,’ Nicolas says, his lips on Draco’s jaw.

‘Of course you’re not.’ Draco groans and tilts his head to the side as Nicolas mouths down his neck. He can feel Nicolas chuckle against him, and screws up his face, disappointed in himself. It is getting on in the evening at least. They’re not the only couple necking on the dance-floor—far from it.

Draco prides himself on his self control. Although, it seems to have taken a nosedive of late.

‘You’ll keep coming to the café even if it’s bad, right?’

Draco twists enough to give him a sceptical look. ‘If it’s going to be bad, why should I bother?’

But Nicolas doesn’t reply with words. He turns Draco’s face toward him with a light touch to the jaw and kisses him—messy from drink, and the angle, and probably the fact that Nicolas is a bit of a messy person. Draco moans into his mouth and opens up to the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed. The bass-line of the music hums through his whole body and between that and how pleasantly tipsy he is, Nicolas’ lips are the most solid, grounding things on the planet.

Draco rolls his hips back—ostensibly still dancing. Really just feeling out the press of Nicolas’ cock against his arse. He tastes sharp like the drinks from earlier and he is a stupidly good kisser. When he nibbles gently on Draco’s lower lip, Draco would be quite happy to just get off with him here in the middle of the room.

Nicolas pulls back too soon and Draco chases the kiss, blinking dazedly when he opens his eyes. Nicolas smirks at him. _It’s not going to be bad_ , reads his expression.

‘Upstairs,’ says Draco, very pointedly.

‘We can go to my place.’

‘No.’ Draco shakes his head. He may be doing stupid things tonight, but not that. ‘No, I want to suck your dick right now.’

‘ _And_ guess what? You convinced me.’ Nicolas takes a step back and turns Draco around. He hooks a finger into the belt loop of his trousers, pulling him through the crowd in the direction of the stairs. Draco goes easily. Between the two of them—specifically that Nicolas is very tall and big and Draco is very sharp and elbowy—they carve a path through the throng of muggles like a pair of sharks through a school of fish.

There is a second bar upstairs. Smaller and quieter, full of people sitting and talking, rather than dancing. The music still pipes through the sound system, but at a lower volume. On the far side of the room are the bathrooms. Draco has gotten off in them before, on another night. They are nice enough. Clean and large, small closed off rooms rather than cubicles.

‘I took you for the sort who wouldn’t settle for anything less than a real bed and dinner first, to be honest,’ Nicolas says, hand on Draco’s lower back. Or the top of his arse, really, two fingers dipping just under the waistband of his trousers. ‘S’ one of the reasons I never bothered.’

Draco rolls his eyes. He hasn’t had sex in a _bed_ since he was sixteen, if you’d even call it that. ‘Thought about it much, did you?’

‘Uh, a few times,’ Nicolas admits with a shrug. ‘In idle speculation.’

‘That what we’re calling it these days?’

Nicolas laughs, his dark eyes sparkling. Draco grins back. They have reached the door to the bathrooms so Draco shoulders past him to enter. They are lucky—there is a room unoccupied and the stone walls and dim lighting make it almost ambient, rather than completely trashy.

Draco locks the door behind them and leans against the wall. ‘I’m sorry if this isn’t quite as romantic as what you _speculated_ ,’ he drawls. ‘But us werewolves, we’ll take it anywhere.’

Nicolas makes several short, flailing gestures and brackets Draco against the wall, kissing him deeply. ‘I know—’ he gets out between breathless kisses. ‘—that you’re just—indulging me—but _aah!_ —That’s just awesome.’

Snickering against his lips, Draco reaches down to fiddle with the button at the top of Nicolas’ jeans. He has zero intention of dragging this out. As much as he enjoys the feeling of Nicolas’ mouth on his, Nicolas’ body pressed close and strong—it should be fast and to the point, the same as any bathroom fuck. He gets one hand inside the front of Nicolas’ jeans as quick as he can and, teasingly, begins to rub his half-hard cock through his pants. He feels, mm, big. Warm and heavy, hardening against Draco’s palm.

‘Want to taste you,’ he murmurs against Nicolas’ lips. ‘Want you to come down my throat.’

Nicolas breaks the kiss, one hand coming up to tangle in Draco’s hair and pull just enough to tilt his head back so that he can fix his mouth to Draco’s neck. Draco feels his pulse jump. He can hear himself panting, chest heaving, and Nicolas’ free hand sliding up under his shirt to feel him up.

‘You’ve got a condom?’ Nicolas asks into the dip below Draco’s ear. The warm gust of breath sends a shiver up his spine.

Draco snorts. ‘For a blowjob?’ Nicolas’ fingers reach his nipple, teasing, and Draco’s dry laugh becomes a gasp.

‘Well, yeah.’ Nicolas straightens. ‘Hold on, got one somewhere.’

Draco crinkles his nose. There is nothing he could catch from sucking Nicolas’ prick that couldn’t be remedied in twenty seconds by downing a potion at home. But he can’t exactly say that. ‘You’re clean, aren’t you?’

‘Last I checked,’ Nicolas says. He has let go of Draco’s hair, feeling around in his pockets instead. His other hand is still exploring under Draco’s shirt and he pinches his side lightly when Draco shifts, impatient. ‘But you never know. Better safe than sorry.’

‘You can’t catch lycanthropy from oral, you know.’ Draco frowns. Well, his own circumstances somewhat undermine that statement. ‘Not tonight, anyway, it’s a new moon.’

Nicolas finally pulls out the condom buried in his pocket and flicks it at Draco, who reluctantly catches it.

‘We’re not doing anything if you won’t use it.’

Draco whines. ‘But it’ll taste like plastic.’

‘So? My dick probably doesn’t taste like butterscotch.’

‘I’d be willing to bet it doe—’ Draco starts, but Nicolas cuts him off again with another grinning kiss. And then his hand in his hair again, tugging gently. Tugging down.

Draco lets out a pleased sigh and drops to his knees. Fine, he thinks, tearing open the plastic packaging and leaning in to rub his cheek along the line of Nicolas’ cock through his pants. If this is what it will take.

It does taste like plastic and Draco does find it moderately unpleasant. He loves the taste of someone else on his tongue, the feeling of skin, the slick slide of spit and precum. But he can live with this—especially when Nicolas groans above him, strokes his hand through Draco’s hair and jerks his hips in a short, strained motion.

‘Fu-fuck, Draco.’

Draco looks up through his eyelashes as he sucks Nicolas down. He is bracing himself against the wall over Draco’s head, panting and gazing down at Draco, something pleased tugging at the corners of his lips. When Draco hollows his cheeks and swallows down as much of his cock as he can, Nicolas’ stomach tenses and his thumb brushes Draco’s cheek, feeling the shape of him in his mouth, and it is everything Draco wants.

He observes Nicolas’ responses to what he’s doing carefully and does more of it, faster and deeper and messier so that it isn’t long until Nicolas is shaking over him, thighs trembling under Draco’s hands as he holds them for support, and his cock pulses on Draco’s tongue. Draco closes his eyes and moans, wishing he could taste him—but he can still feel him, hear his strangled moan, feel him come apart.

Draco’s knees protest when Nicolas hefts him to his feet, after. He didn’t even register the hard, cold tile beneath him until it is suddenly gone and Nicolas is pushing him back against the wall, claiming his mouth again.

There is not usually this much kissing during Draco’s hookups. It’s a pleasant change, he decides after a hazy moment of contemplation during which Nicolas’ tongue does something with his own tongue which Draco can’t keep up with right now but thoroughly appreciates.

‘Can I get you off?’ Nicolas asks, pulling back only enough to murmur the words and slide his hand down Draco’s body.

It takes Draco a moment to respond, drunk and horny: he kisses Nicolas, his hands mapping out wide shoulders appreciatively. Finally the words register (stupid question, really) and he nods.

Nicolas doesn’t waste time. Time is for people who aren’t having it off next to a toilet. But it doesn’t matter. He touches Draco deftly, unbuttoning his trousers with one hand as he kisses him again and opens them enough to stroke his cock. It is nothing special, it’s a handjob. But it's a _good_ handjob and Nicolas is strong enough to keep Draco steady when his knees go weak and he moans into his mouth.

He doesn’t waste time, but he doesn’t rush it either. Seems to just be enjoying himself, bringing Draco off with even, steady strokes, firm and skilled. He brushes Draco’s hair out of his face and looks at him, and his brown eyes are deep and warm and Draco can’t break his gaze. Doesn’t want to.

Nicolas watches Draco through his orgasm, eyes drinking it all in as Draco tremors, jerks, and spills into Nicolas’ grip—and then when it’s over, he wipes his hand on a wad of toilet paper and kisses Draco _again,_ even before he can catch his breath.

‘Ugh,’ Nicolas says a few moments later while Draco waits for his legs to start working properly and his pulse to steady. He is wiping the toilet paper on a splatter of jism on his vest. ‘I guess it’s white, no one’s gonna see it…’

Draco smirks and, fingers trembling, reaches down to button Nicolas up. ‘Go back to your friends,’ he tells him. ‘I need to use the loo for real.’

‘One more for the road,’ Nicolas replies, and snogs him. It’s too much. An excess. It makes Draco suspect he has made a mistake. But then Nicolas pulls back, unbothered. ‘Hey, find me before you leave,’ he says. ‘I’ll be somewhere. Say goodbye, alright?’

‘Will do,’ Draco lies and then, when Nicolas slips out of the stall, Draco closes the door, counts to thirty, and apparates home, hoping he doesn’t drunkenly splinch himself.

 

*

 

His flat blurs into focus around him less than a heartbeat later and, although his head is spinning awfully, from a quick inventory he is pretty certain all his limbs are present. He stumbles, groans, catches himself on the edge of the kitchen bench.

_That was stupid._

Drunk apparition is stupid, he knows this. He sat through the forty minute lecture at Hogwarts about it with everyone else, watched the gruesome slide-show about what can happen to you if you try it. But—what else could he do?

_That was stupid._

Draco straightens and, wobbly, goes to the sink to swallow down a large glass of water. At the club he felt congruous with his surroundings. Drunk, not legless; because the environment was well suited to his level of inebriation. The mass of bodies and the thump of music and even the tile under his knees and the warmth of Nicolas’ body had all complimented the way his head was spinning quite adequately. Here at home, however, he feels messy and unbalanced. The clean white lines of his walls, carpet, coffee table—all seem too sterile and uniform.

‘Fuck,’ he says out loud, dropping his empty glass next to the sink. He digs his hand into his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. He knows, on some level, that he ought to regret what just happened. He always comes home from these things filled with regret, the smell and taste of _muggle_ on his skin, shame awash in his body. The degrading weight of it a reminder that he is _worthless_ , a half-breed, a beast and he deserves nothing else.

But instead of feeling that, he just feels… drunk. And warm.

‘Bed,’ he tells himself firmly, a directive. He can be mortified in the morning, after sleep. Still rubbing his head, he crosses the living room and steps into the hallway to his bedroom. He can still taste Nicolas on his lips and he smiles to himself as he drops his eyes to the ground and opens the bedroom door.

He switches the light on and steps inside several paces before pausing, eyeing the bed.

‘Is that where I left you?’ he asks the porcelain doll sitting on the pillow. She is the one he purchased today, at the auction house. He can’t remember now where he left her when he got home earlier. Wasn’t it on the table? Why would he put her in his bedroom?

Squinting one eye, Draco takes a few steps closer to the bed to inspect the doll. She looks thoroughly innocuous, although definitely uncanny. He can see why muggles would think she was haunted. Her wide, green eyes are detailed with heavy painted lashes and they seem to look right at Draco, no matter how he tilts his head. Her strawberry blonde hair falls in ringlets around her rosy cheeks and a small blue bow sits like a bug next to her ear. The lacy dress she is wearing is pastel blue, soft and restrained, but weathered with age, motheaten in places. She looks a bit like a schoolgirl, with a wide-brimmed yellow hat perched on the back of her hair.

Draco bought her because he likes her, and because she looks thoroughly creepy. But dolls can’t actually be haunted. Ghosts just can’t do that. At most, someone has put an animation charm on her at some point so that she’ll move innocuously around.

Reaching out, Draco pulls up the blankets on his bed to tuck in the doll to her neck, tilts her back against the pillow and pats her twice on the head. ‘You sleep there,’ he tells her and, because there is no chance he’s going to share a bed with a totally-not-haunted-doll, grabs a spare blanket from the cupboard and goes to sleep on the couch.

He curls up under the blanket, the room spinning, and as he drifts off he can feel the phantom sensation of Nicolas brushing his hair away from his cheek. He breathes out, and sleeps.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco stares at the doll in his bed, his head pounding and mouth dry, thoroughly confused.

‘Did you put the doll to bed instead of yourself?’ he asks himself into the empty room, baffled. His recollections of returning home from the club are a touch hazy. He remembers tucking the doll in, but why on earth he put it in the bed in the first place, he has no idea. Snorting, he cards a hand through his hair. ‘Good job, Draco,’ he mumbles.

He stumbles past the doll in the bed and into the adjoined bathroom, turning on the shower. He undresses clumsily, his coordination off, and steps under the spray. The warm water washes off the clinging sensation of sweat, touch and drink from last night. Draco looks down at his body, frowning. Everything from last night is a bit of a blur, but he remembers Nicolas’ hand taking his as they danced, remembers grinding back against him, remembers the feeling of his lips against his own in that small room upstairs.

There goes ever being able to go to his favourite café again.

‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ He groans into the water, opening his mouth to the spray. Gargles, spits down the drain. He feels dehydrated and gross, but he can take a potion in a few minutes. It will make him feel better. It won’t, however, wipe away what he did last night, so it seems kind of pointless at this moment.

There are _reasons_ he sticks to getting off with strangers. Those reasons are written into his skin, on full display right now. From the dark black ink down his forearm that marks him for what he has done, to the collection of scars on the inside of his thighs, still deep and (although bloodless) fresh as though they were bitten into his skin yesterday, which mark what was done _to_ him: his body is a collection of reasons why he should not have done what he did last night.

And Nicolas is a muggle. Draco almost forgets this, sometimes, because he seems so much like a real _person_. But that’s what he is. He is not a wizard. He doesn’t even know what Draco is. He knows nothing. He is nothing. And Draco has debased himself, not only with fucking him and enjoying it but with being _fond_ of him.

Like one gets fond of a friendly puppy. It is a whole different—

Well, not _species_ , obviously. Draco shudders. Besides, if either of them could be compared to a dog, it’s Draco. But that is semantics.

Turning off the shower with a mumbled word, Draco frowns as he dries himself off. He needs to be more careful. He needs to be more discerning. He needs to be more… _why did he tuck that creepy doll into bed? What is wrong with him?_

A hangover potion. That will do the trick.

 

*

 

Draco does not go to the café when the full moon rolls around that month. It feels wrong not to, because he has gone there every single month for the past two years. Longer, perhaps. But he tells himself that his habits have to change now. He needs control over as much of his life as he can manage, and it feels like he is losing it.

It is not about Nicolas, not really. It is about drawing a line in the sand and not overstepping it. It is about not inviting someone over that threshold even as you tell them and yourself that it will go badly; and then it does.

Draco goes to a different cafe and eats several plates of food and drinks several Caffé Mochas. The food is fine. It fills up the aching space inside him after every transformation. But the coffee is just not as good as he is accustomed to.

 

*

 

During the month, Draco’s mother comes to visit. She gives him a five minute warning and Draco panics.

He is sitting at the table tinkering with the charms on an antique toy carousel when he receives her owl. It is mid-morning, he has a plate of ginger biscuits he baked for himself and half a cup of tea at his elbow, there is junk all over the lounge from his work, and his wolfsbane is simmering pungently on the stove top. It is at the stage in its brewing process where it gives off a strong, not unpleasant, but thoroughly unmistakable floral odour. Mother’s note says: _‘I’ll be over shortly. Please make sure the flat is clean, darling.’_

Draco jumps to his feet the moment he has finished reading it. The flat is most definitely not clean—the building’s house-elfs mostly leave his collection of junk untouched—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is getting the potion hidden. When he lived at home he brewed in the attic of the away house down the end of the garden, surrounded by wards and alarms. But here he doesn’t really have anywhere to hide it. The flat is spacious, but distinctly designed for one person. The cauldron he uses is small and stashable—but the potion is delicate and cannot come off the heat at this stage of brewing.

Swearing, Draco conjures a small, steady flame into the palm of his hand and points his wand at the cauldron. As delicately as possible, he hovers it off the stove, keeping his hand underneath it. He moves painfully slowly, aware that Narcissa might floo in at any moment but not daring to walk with haste. Disrupting the potion could easily ruin it.

He takes it to the smaller bathroom, which is an ensuite off his bedroom, and balances both cauldron and flame carefully on the closed toilet seat before removing the lid to check that it is still simmering evenly. The sapphire blue liquid is gently bubbling and Draco breathes out in relief.

He closes the ensuite door behind him and hurries back to the living room, wand out. He barely has time to cast a few odour masking spells to hastily obscure the scent of wolfsbane before the fire in the hearth flares and he hastily shoves his wand away, trying to look collected and welcoming as his mother steps out of there fire and into the room.

‘Draco, dear,’ she says as she kisses his cheek.

Draco sighs and kisses her back. ‘Hey, mum. Is something wrong?’

‘Not at all. I just feel like I haven’t seen you for ages, and you always make up excuses why I can’t visit you here.’

‘You were over recently,’ Draco objects.

‘Four months ago.’ She purses her lips. ‘I keep asking.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Draco lies. ‘It isn’t like I’m stopping you from visiting. You just keep picking bad times.’

Narcissa looks around the flat. Her gaze falls on the tea and biscuits on the table and then on Draco, who is still in his dressing robes. ‘This is a bad time?’

‘No, this is… good.’ Draco edges to the kitchen. ‘Tea?’

He doesn’t wait for his mother’s reply, automatically busying himself with charming the kettle to boil itself and preparing a teapot. His heart is thudding in his throat. He can still smell the wolfsbane on the air and _he’s_ accustomed to it. Surely she must have noticed?

But she just comments, ‘I notice you didn’t tidy.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ Draco says, somewhat defensively. ‘It isn’t dirty, mother. It’s just clutter.’

Narcissa picks up a brass goblet from the coffee table and inspects it, turning it over in her hands. ‘You’re not keeping all this, are you?’

‘Not at all.’ Draco bites his tongue, pouring boiling water into the teapot to brew. ‘I’ll sell most of it on.’

‘To whom?’

‘Whoever has the best offer. There are a lot of collectors around taking an interest in these things.’

‘These things?’ Narcissa asks, unconvinced. She puts down the goblet and reaches for a babushka doll with flaking paint.

Draco startles. ‘Don’t touch that one!’ he says abruptly. His mother snatches her hand back in alarm. ‘Sorry, it’s—it’s nothing dangerous, but it will waste your evening and might need a trip to St Mungo’s.’

‘I see.’ Narcissa looks at him with a raised eyebrow and takes the cup of tea he offers her. ‘Darling…’

‘Everybody needs a hobby.’

‘Yes, I quite understand that. However, this just seems a bit…’ She pauses, looking over Draco’s shoulder. ‘And that doll on the table, you have a buyer for that, dear?’

With a baffled look, Draco turns around. ‘What on earth are you—’ he starts, before catching sight of the porcelain doll sitting directly behind him, her stockinged feet dangling off the edge of the table. He jumps. ‘Sodding—!’ He reaches down to pick her up and looks at her closely. ‘I left you in the closet,’ he tells the doll, chastising. ‘You can’t just go wandering around wherever you fancy.’

‘Charming.’

‘She’s just got an animation charm on her,’ Draco explains, sitting down on the sofa next to his mother and setting the doll on his lap. He fiddles with the hem of her dress. ‘Some warlocks found her at a muggle auction house. They thought she was haunted.’ He deliberately leaves out that he was at the auction in person. Better for mother to think he came to buy her through wizards than from the source.

Narcissa chuckles. ‘She doesn’t sneak up on you often, does she?’

‘Once or twice a week.’

‘Oh dear. Does she have a name?’

Draco looks down at the doll, considering. ‘I dunno. What do you think?’

‘What about _Carina_?’

‘You’ll let me know if you don’t like it?’ Draco asks the doll, gently pulling on a curl of her sunrise ringlets, watching it spring back up into a neat coil. ‘Let’s see how Carina goes.’

Narcissa has apparently not noticed anything out of the ordinary about the room, which is a relief. Slowly, as she drinks her tea and chats to him, Draco relaxes. He misses having his mother and father around all the time. The decision to leave them was an easy one, due to the circumstances. But most of the time he would much rather be back home with them, living at the manor. He misses it. He misses the feeling of home.

Naturally, just as Draco is beginning to feel relaxed and happy, things go wrong.

It takes Draco a moment to register the sudden burst of the flames in the fireplace opposite them, but what appears a moment later immediately catches both his and Narcissa’s attention.

Remus Lupin’s head, scarred and scruffy, blinks up at them out of the fire, before going wide-eyed. ‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I’ll come back later.’

Next to Draco, Narcissa has tensed. Draco can feel his own fingers gripping onto Carina in this lap, his back stiff as a board. ‘What are you—’

‘Ah, my nephew-in-law,’ Narcissa says smoothly with biting politeness. ‘Is this a common visitation?’

Draco blanches. ‘No!’

‘Really, I can speak to Draco later.’ Lupin looks like he’s about to retract his head from the fire.

But Narcissa talks over him. ‘Anything you have to say to my son you can say in front of me.’

‘Mother,’ Draco says. ‘It’s not what—’

‘Not what, dear? Does he not have business with you?’

Draco looks desperately in confusion at Lupin, who is giving him a meaningful stare which manages to betray nothing. _Why is he here?_ ‘No, he’s just after, er, an essay I never finished in school.’

_What the fuck?_

Lupin laughs. ‘I can’t keep giving you extensions like this, Draco,’ he says. ‘No, really. I came to say that I can take that boggart off your hands after all, if you still need someone to collect it.’

It takes Draco a short moment to process the lie. Cover story? Swallowing down questions, he replies, ‘I don’t have it to hand right now. Could we discuss the details later this afternoon? I’ll floo you.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Lupin nods in acknowledgement. ‘I’ll let you get back to it. Sorry for butting in.’

‘A boggart?’ Narcissa asks when Lupin has vanished from the fire.

‘In one of the items that came to me,’ Draco improvises. ‘It seemed sensible to have him take it. It’s nothing, mother, just business.’

‘Do you often conduct business with half-breeds?’

It takes Draco a moment to respond, his brain still caught on wondering what the hell Lupin was coming to him about in the first place. There would be no reason for him to come to Draco about anything other than their shared problem. Why would he floo, rather than owl?

_Perhaps because you ignored him the last time he tried to owl you._

‘I—Uh, of course not.’

Narcissa’s lips press together. ‘I don’t like this, Draco. He should not be contacting you.’

‘I don’t like it either,’ Draco can honestly reply.

‘I told Lucius he was being too protective when he wanted you to stay at home,’ Narcissa says. ‘I told him you knew better than to debase yourself with—’

‘I do know better,’ Draco interrupts, insistent. And then, to change the topic: ‘How is father?’

The conversation moves stiltedly away from Lupin’s visit. After an hour or so they finish the pot of tea and Draco lets his mother hug him and tell him to clean.

‘I love you, Draco,’ she says, touching cool fingers to his cheek.

‘Love you too,’ he replies, smiling tightly. ‘I promise, everything is fine. Come visit any time.’ He pauses. ‘But give me twenty minutes to tidy up.’

She breathes out a soft laugh. ‘I’ll try not to catch you unaware next time,’ she says, and steps into the swirling green flames.

Draco fumes for a while before flooing Lupin. How _dare_ he presume to appear in the middle of Draco’s house like that? In the middle of the day! Without warning! How did he think that would go over?

With a sharp, angry movement, he throws floo powder into the fire and drops to his knees.

A fast, sickening spin through blurring fireplaces and he finds himself looking out into Lupin’s living room at about knee height. Or, as it transpires, eye-level with the young boy with shocking blue hair—Teddy, presumably—sitting on the rug, drawing with brightly coloured textas in a large sketchbook. Teddy looks at Draco, noticing him appear out of the corner of his eye, and calls out, ‘Dad!’ to the rest of the house.

Draco hears footsteps on the stairs.

‘Hello,’ he says awkwardly to his cousin.

‘Hi,’ Teddy says, and looks back down at his drawing. Fair enough. Some children are shy around strangers, Draco supposes. He was never reserved as a child himself, instead much more inclined to draw the attention of anyone and everyone in a room in whatever way he could manage.

A moment of uncomfortable waiting later, Lupin appears in the doorway and approaches his son. He kneels down and murmurs something about drawing at the table for a while, and helps Teddy collect his pens together before sending him out of the room and crouching down to look at Draco.

Draco doesn’t give him an opportunity to say anything before he snaps. ‘Don’t _ever_ come into my flat uninvited again.’

Lupin drags a hand over the stubble on his jaw, giving Draco a considering look. ‘It seemed prudent.’

‘Why?’

‘I was concerned about you.’

 _‘Why?’_ Draco’s fingers clench against the hardwood floor in his own living room as he glares daggers at Lupin.

‘Because Nicolas tells me you didn’t go to that café for breakfast this month. He says for the first time in years.’

Draco’s stomach drops. ‘You’re talking to Nicolas?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, don’t.’

Lupin shrugs. ‘So, can I take it that you were not on the loose on the streets of London this full moon, devouring innocent people?’

‘Absolutely not. It was perfectly normal. Mundane. I just went to a different shop for breakfast. It’s allowed.’

‘It certainly is,’ Lupin agrees. ‘That’s a relief. After I heard from Nicolas this morning I admit he had me worried.’

‘What did he say?’ Draco asks, curiosity prickling at him. He feels humiliated, hoping against hope that Nicolas didn’t mention to Lupin what happened between them. That’s not something he needs his third year teacher knowing about.

‘He seemed quite distressed. Asked that I contact you and tell you that he would like you to stop by his work. He did say something about werewolf hunters, and also that he needed to apologise to you.’

‘I see,’ Draco says slowly. Apologise? Apologise for what? Draco frowns. If either of them have done something wrong here, it’s Draco. And even then, some mid-tier rudeness is rather low on his personal list of sins. ‘And you are in contact with him because…?’

‘His blog is fascinating. It’s clear he is, ah, rigorous about studying magical creatures. I emailed him some book recommendations after I read his page.’

Draco furrows his brows. ‘Muggle books?’

‘Yes, muggle books.’

‘You don’t think…’ Draco bites his lip, trying not to sound hopeful. ‘If this “blog” is really so insightful, you don’t reckon he could secretly be a wizard?’

Lupin chuckles. ‘Absolutely not. He’s wrong about almost everything he writes and the things he happens to be correct about, coming from a wizard, would be a serious breach of statute.’

‘Blast,’ Draco mutters. The winces, flushing. ‘I mean—he’s an idiot.’

‘Will you go talk to him? Or shall I reply and tell him you’re alive myself?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll go see him,’ Draco says, irritable. He doesn’t especially want to, but he doesn’t especially not want to, either. ‘This is ridiculous, but yes.’

 

*

 

The café is almost empty, as seems to be the trend after three in the afternoon. Draco lingers outside, out of view for several moments, snooping to check that Nicolas is indeed alone at the counter, before pushing his shoulders back and opening the door.

Nicolas is leaning on the bench and balancing the till, wearing a ridiculously tight black t-shirt that he appears to have cut at the neck with scissors so that it opens to halfway down his chest. He glances up as Draco steps inside and immediately pushes the register closed with his elbow so that it slams shut with a loud _ka-ching_.

‘Hey!’ He pushes his hair out of his face. ‘You’re alright!’

Draco stomps across the room to meet him and crosses his arms, pointedly lifting an eyebrow. ‘I hear you were worried about me.’

‘I mean, I figured you were most likely just avoiding me,’ Nicolas clarifies, looking slightly abashed. ‘But I guess my imagination did start to get away from me, yeah. Your favourite werewolf customer goes missing after the full moon? It could be cause for alarm.’

Draco just rolls his eyes.

‘There are people who track down and hunt werewolves,’ Nicolas adds defensively.

‘I’m well aware.’ Draco groans. ‘So you contacted Lupin?’

‘Moony?’ Nicolas asks. ‘Is his name really Lupin?’

‘Yes? What’s weird about that?’

‘Lupin?’ Nicolas says it significantly. _‘Lobo? Lupus?’_

‘Oh, I get it. Because it’s like wolf.’ Draco smirks. ‘Huh. I never got that, that’s funny. Why would you call him Moony?’

‘It’s his screen name.’

_‘Of course it is.’_

They both look at each other for a moment, before Nicolas breaks and laughs. He says, ‘So, you’re not captured by werewolf hunters, then.’

‘Not yet.’ Draco shifts. ‘I was also informed that you have an _apology_ for me.’

‘Right, yeah.’ Nicolas glances around, checking that none of his co-workers or customers are listening. He clears his throat. ‘Just, you know, for the other week. I wanted to say sorry for disappearing on you. I had a good time, I didn’t want you to think I ditched you on purpose. I don’t blame you for being mad.’

Draco stares at him blankly. ‘You disappeared on me?’

‘Yeah, I mean—after we, you know… I found my friends, but my house-mate had made herself really sick and I had to get her home. I couldn’t spot you to say goodbye, and she needed someone to take care of her. You understand.’

‘I understand.’ Draco smiles. He doesn’t mention that he had already vanished on Nicolas and had no intention of saying goodbye whatsoever. ‘You have to look out for your friends, that’s important.’

‘Am I forgiven?’

Draco inspects his nails and hums. ‘Maybe. I was quite hurt.’

‘I’m an arsehole,’ Nicolas says. ‘Really.’

‘You’ll have to give me some time to recover from this heartbreak,’ Draco says, lip quirking. ‘Is your house-mate okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah of course. Just drank too much. She vomited on me on the way home.’

‘Oh, well I suppose that can be your punishment then,’ Draco says magnanimously. ‘Apology accepted.’

Nicolas grins at him and Draco feels his stomach lurch as he almost forgets why he was avoiding him in the first place.

‘So was it alright?’ asks Nicolas.

‘Huh?’

‘The hookup. You didn’t just up and decide I wasn’t worth ever seeing again, right?’

Draco shrugs a shoulder. ‘It was fine.’

‘Just fine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I think we can do a bit better than fine, don’t you? Maybe I’m just an overachiever, but that sounds like I barely scraped a pass.’

‘You work in hospitality, you don’t strike me as an overachiever.’

‘Excuse you, I graduated with first class honours.’

‘You did? What was it you studied?’

‘My major was biology.’

Draco narrows his eyes. ‘Then why are you—’

Nicolas shrugs. ‘I couldn’t decide what to do with it.’

In honesty, Draco isn’t entirely certain what “biology” is: so he says nothing.

‘Hey,’ Nicolas says, and pulls out some paper from his pocket. He scribbles down a series of digits and holds the paper out to Draco. ‘Here. For you to let me try to improve on “fine”.’

Draco cocks his head and doesn’t take the paper. ‘What is this?’

‘My phone number.’

‘Oh.’ Draco frowns.

Nicolas waves it at him. ‘Oy. You take it.’

‘I can’t do anything with that,’ Draco tells him. ‘I don’t have a phone.’

‘You don’t have a phone?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a landline?’

‘A what?’

Nicolas squints at him. ‘This is an excuse,’ he says. ‘Just say no if you aren’t interested. I’m a big boy, I can take it.’

‘I am interested!’ Draco says indignantly, before slamming his mouth closed. Oops. Didn’t mean to say that.

‘Alright, then take the bloody phone number!’

‘I don’t have a phone!’

‘For fucks—’ Nicolas reaches out and takes Draco’s wrist. He shoves the scrap of paper into his hand. ‘For whenever you _get_ a phone then.’

Draco holds the number gingerly, not sure what to do with it. Perhaps throw it at Nicolas’ face for not listening to him? ‘Why would I get one?’

‘This is like pulling teeth. So you can booty-call me, you idiot.’

‘I’m not going to go buy something I don’t need just for _that_ ,’ Draco says. Then, considering: ‘Where would I get a phone?’

‘Fucking hell. From the shops. I don’t know. How do you usually contact people?’

‘The normal way. The, uh, postal system. Mail. Etcetera.’

Nicolas snorts. ‘Shall I give you my home address, then? You can send me a letter any time you fancy hooking up and I can respond in three to five working days.’

‘You are being very presumptuous.’

‘I want in your pants,’ Nicolas says bluntly. ‘And I’m willing to work with the fact that you are a time-walker from the eighteenth century. Give me some credit.’

‘Alright, fine.’ Draco looks at the clock hanging on the wall behind Nicolas. ‘What time do you close? Would you like to go for a walk?’

‘Oh!’ Nicolas swivels on his heel. ‘Yeah, gimme a mo,’ he tells Draco, then calls out: ‘Kim!’

A voice drifts out from from the back of the café. ‘What?’

‘Can I go?’

A pause. ‘Are there customers?’

Nicolas glances around at the very sparsely populated tables and leans on the door frame to reply. ‘They’ve all paid.’

‘How’s the kitchen?’

‘Done.’

‘Register?’

‘Done.’

There is a muffled sigh, and a short, young, stone faced woman with cropped hair shuffles out of a door just behind the counter, her hands buried in the pockets of an oversized hoodie. She glances around and shrugs. ‘Alright, sure Nico. You’re in tomorrow?’

‘Course.’ Nicolas holds up a couple of fingers to Draco to signal he’ll just be a couple of seconds, and heads into the office that Kim just came out from.

While he’s in there, she looks Draco up and down and makes a soft _hmph_ sound which Draco ignores.

Nicolas returns a few moments later, pulling on a jacket and a backpack. He hurries out from behind the counter, waving at his boss as he joins Draco, gesturing him to the door.

Although Draco is well aware that he is the one who just asked Nicolas to step out with him, this is not really what he had been planning for his afternoon and he’s unsure what he intends to come from this. But staying away from Nicolas didn’t pan out and at this point, he would quite like to lay some things out and see how the chips fall.

‘Can we go somewhere quiet?’ he asks. ‘The river, maybe. I have something I want to ask you.’

It isn’t far to walk along Victoria Embankment, under the rows of plane trees barely clinging to the last of their autumn leaves. There are plenty of other people out, but everyone is involved in their own lives, and between the sounds of traffic and the wind on the Thames, the chances of being overheard are low.

Draco clicks his tongue and sucks in a resigned breath through his teeth, glancing at Nicolas. ‘I shouldn’t be saying this,’ he starts.

Nicolas raises an eyebrow. ‘No…?’

‘You talk a lot of nonsense about werewolves and monsters, don’t you?’

‘I do _not.’_ Nicolas sounds offended. ‘It isn’t nonsense.’

Draco gives him a considering look. ‘Is it not?’ he asks. ‘Then here’s my question: do you know any werewolves?’

‘Aside from you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I…’ Nicolas squints, apparently trying to assess how serious Draco is. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘I have a friend who is a werewolf.’

A sudden and surprising rush of relief. ‘So you know, then?’ Draco asks. ‘That werewolves are real? That—you know about it all?’

‘Uh, if I haven’t made it absolutely clear at this point that I believe in werewolves, then I don’t know what the fuck to tell you.’

‘No, not _believe_. Not any muggle superstition, guessing or half-truths and made-up monsters. I mean, you _know_ about werewolves.’

Nicolas stares at him. ‘Yeah.’

Lightness seems to burst through Draco, animating him. ‘And wizards,’ he says keenly. ‘And magic, and all of it.’

‘Did you just say “wizards”?’

‘Yes, wizards. Of course.’

‘Spells and potions and—’ He wiggles his fingers. ‘—magic stuff?’

‘Yes!’

Nicolas laughs, throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulders so that his backpack bumps between them. ‘Alright, cool,’ he says. ‘And _you’re_ a wizard, yeah?’

‘Of course I am,’ Draco says. ‘I’m a Malfoy. Sacred Twenty-eight. Pureblood. I’m about as much of a wizard as you can get.’

‘But more importantly, you’re a werewolf.’

‘I’m a wizard. I happen to have a condition. I don’t like to think of myself as a werewolf.’

Nicolas glances at him, still laughing. ‘Is that insensitive?’

‘What are you finding so funny, exactly?’ Draco asks irritably.

‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll use wizard-first language if it’s what you prefer. A wizard with lycanthropy. Not a lycanthrope wizard. I get it.’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m always willing to listen and learn.’

‘You’re still laughing at me,’ Draco objects. ‘ _Stop_ laughing at me.’

Nicolas kisses him. It is clumsy, because they are still walking—but the afternoon sun glints on the Thames and gets in Draco’s eyes, and he smiles against Nicolas’ lips even as their teeth click together and they pull apart, both laughing breathlessly.

 

*

 

Draco thinks that this is the closest thing to a date he has ever had. Sure, he went to Hogsmeade a few times with Pansy, in school, and those were “dates”, but they really weren’t.

This is just a long, mostly directionless walk. They get kebabs and some chips and eat them in a park. A squirrel surprises Draco by running up his leg, and he shrieks and Nicolas laughs at him until he is bent over and crying a bit. Draco refuses to talk to him for a while after that: but they talk a lot prior to the squirrel and then a lot again after, when Draco decides he has forgiven Nicolas.

They talk, primarily, about mapinguari. Draco corrects Nicolas on several points about the magical creature, while Nicolas argues emphatically abut the evolutionary basis of its “bulletproof” hide.

‘It was a sloth that got hit with a permanent shield charm,’ Draco says around a mouthful of tabouli.

‘No, it evolved hard dermal ossicles, like an alligator,’ Nicolas argues. ‘I’m Brazilian, I know about my own fucking cryptids.’

‘Clearly not,’ Draco insists, and they argue about it until the sun has set and the evening has turned cold.

‘Come home with me,’ Nicolas says eventually, voice low, fingers teasing at Draco’s palm.

Draco bites his lip and looks at the leaves strewn on the ground. ‘Yeah, okay,’ he answers after a long moment.

Nicolas lives in a tall, narrow terrace house in Brixton which he shares, Draco quickly learns, with six other muggles. The moment he follows Nicolas across the threshold of the house he is hit by the chaos, the _muggleness_ of it all. What should be the living room of the house is an open bedroom with two double beds: one in a rickety frame and one just a mattress pushed under an empty window. There are two girls sitting in this room, computers open in front of them, who both glance up to greet Nicolas as he gets in. They look Draco up and down and one snickers and says, ‘Not another one, Nico.’

‘Shove off,’ says Nicolas lightly.

The next floor has two bedrooms and a kitchen which is, apparently, the actual communal living space of the house. It is tiny, crowded by a large table and a sofa and a television—all in addition to the kitchen itself. There is barely enough space to move around inside, and there is a man sitting at the table, one arm out the window, holding a cigarette. He is watching Golden Balls.

Nicolas’ room is apparently on the very top level of the house, which looks narrow and dark and attic-y. He moves to lead Draco up there but is stopped on the way by another house-mate appearing from behind one of the bedroom doors and stopping him with a hand to the chest.

‘Oy,’ she says sharply. She juts her square jaw forward, looking stormy. ‘You, dishes, now.’

Nicolas gives her a disbelieving look. ‘Can it wait, Em?’

Em shakes her head. ‘I have a date coming over in half an hour, I’m making him dinner. The kitchen needs to be clean.’

‘So… do the dishes?’

‘Yeah, I’ve done mine. And Louis’. The rest are yours.’

With an apologetic glance at Draco (who is feeling incredibly out of place), Nicolas asks, ‘Do you mind? It’ll take five minutes.’

‘Not at all,’ replies Draco stiffly. So they turn back around and head straight into the kitchen, Em following behind them like a guard ensuring Nicolas doesn’t try to squirrel out of his grim fate.

‘Take a seat,’ Nicolas tells Draco as he approaches the tiny, overcrowded sink. He pulls off his jacket, throwing it onto the arm of the sofa.

Draco pulls out a kitchen chair and sits opposite the smoking man, who says with a strong Australian accent, ‘How’s it goin’, mate?’

It takes Draco a moment to respond to the question. He has never directly socialised with this many muggles at once. He has never been inside a muggle house. He stares at the way the television is perched precariously on top of the grimy refrigerator, which is covered in notes and completely stationary photographs.

‘Fine,’ he manages to answer finally, hearing his own voice come out strangled. The Australian offers him a cigarette. He declines.

The guy shrugs and takes a long drag, leaning out to blow the smoke out the window. ‘Oh, come on, she’s clearly having you on,’ he says to the television. ‘How come they never just split?’

‘Prisoner’s Dilemma,’ Em says, sitting down next to Draco and helping herself to one of the cigarettes from the packet on the table. She doesn’t light it, just turns it over in her hands. ‘Sorry for stealing his time, by the way,’ she tells Draco. ‘But he’s got to learn his manners.’

Draco’s first instinct is to simply not respond. Or tell both muggles (who aren’t Nicolas and therefore get no privileges) not to talk to him. But given that Nicolas is right there, and given that Draco is still hoping to get laid after all, he replies. ‘Quite right. If you have other chores he needs to perform, I’m happy to supervise.’

Em laughs. ‘Mop the floor, Nico?’

Nicolas groans. ‘Don’t you encourage her,’ he mutters, stacking plates on the rack next to the sink.

The dishes don’t take long and Draco lets himself watch the television while the other two muggles chat idly about university. His stomach squirms as he waits for Nicolas, who is humming under his breath as he cleans.

Draco could have this done in two seconds. If he took his wand out, he could have the whole room spotless for Em’s date in a heartbeat. He feels out of place. He knows he looks out of place, black collar of his cloak laced up tight, narrow sleeves tapered to rings around the middle fingers on each hand. Em, meanwhile, is wearing purple velour sweatpants and cigarette guy just has an open flannel over his bare chest.

‘Done,’ Nicolas says, putting the last of the cutlery into the rack.

‘Thanks, love,’ Em says sweetly. ‘Now clear out, Reese will be here soon.’

Nicolas finally leads Draco upstairs. This time they make it to the tiny, dim landing which leads to three doors. One is clearly a bathroom, and the other door Draco is pretty sure does not belong to Nicolas, because he can hear loud, exaggerated pornographic moans muffled behind it, and there seems to be a damp, musky smell emanating from under the door.

Draco drifts to the other side of the landing and shares a meaningful look with Nicolas, who winces. ‘Yeah, that’s pretty much… normal…’ he says, and gestures to his own bedroom door. ‘But I’m in here. I promise it smells better.’

Nicolas’ room is very long and narrow, with a slanted ceiling that emphasises that it is built into the attic. There is a queen bed squeezed into the far end on the room with no space on either side to climb in or out, and a little alcove above it below the skylight, stacked with books. The only other furniture in the room is a large desk, leather chair, and computer. The desk is also covered in books, as well as empty teacups.

Nicolas doesn’t turn the overhead light on, just a stream of fairy lights with frame the alcove over the bed. ‘That one buzzes,’ he says, by way of explanation—but Draco thinks it’s atmospheric.

With the door closed behind them, he can let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He feels himself relax. The presence of all those muggles was a bit much, and it’s also a bit much knowing that they are still out there, the whole muggle house is out there, and he is _in_ a muggle house, with a muggle, being an idiot. But here, in the dim, soft light with Nicolas, it seems okay.

Nicolas sits on the bed and gestures for Draco to join him.

There is not much to it. It is slow and easy. They make out for a long time, because they can. And because Draco won’t quite let it stop. He has never had the luxury of this, the slow build up, the time spent just on warm lips and gentle, teasing touches.

Nicolas undresses him slowly, and Draco undresses him slowly in return, one piece of clothing at a time. He is careful, then Nicolas finally gets him out of his trousers, that he gets under the blankets on the bed as quick as he can, careful to make sure Nicolas doesn’t have a chance to notice the marks on his thighs and ask questions.

The sex is like nothing Draco has ever felt before. It is warm, easy, and full of open mouthed, heated kisses. Their bodies roll together under the sheets, hands feeling out what they will without hurry.

When Draco comes, he feels like he is melting into the bed. He is under Nicolas, who is moving them together, hand on Draco’s prick. The pillow is soft under his head and Nicolas’ weight on him is the most wonderful thing he has ever felt—enough so that as his orgasm rolls through him, Draco lets out the stupidest, soppiest noises and realises as he comes down, that is eyes are wet. He buries his face in Nicolas’ shoulder, can’t help the laughing-sob that comes out, and feels Nicolas press his lips to his own bony shoulder as he follows him over the edge.

‘You okay?’ Nicolas asks afterwards, while Draco still cannot move his body for the life of him.

There aren’t words. There aren’t words, so Draco just hums out a positive noise and pushes Nicolas away because it is too hot, too much.

 

*

 

Draco redresses, again careful not to let Nicolas see him, and excuses himself to take a piss.

On the landing, he meets one of the girls from downstairs and the guy from the dank porn room across the hall. The guy is wearing only a pair of boxers with anime characters printed on them, and he and the girl are both sharing a beer as they lean against the railing and chat.

They watch as Draco closes Nicolas’ door behind him.

‘Are you a vampire?’ the girl asks.

Draco pauses. ‘No.’

‘You look like a vampire,’ says porn guy. ‘The…’ He gestures to Draco’s cloak and gloves and general borderline wizarding ensemble.

‘Fuck off,’ says Draco.

‘And there we go,’ says the girl, taking a drink. ‘Bit much to hope that Nico would shag someone who’s not a complete git.’

‘That’s his type,’ says the guy. ‘Innit? Vampires and wendigos and pricks and bastards. You a wendigo then, mate?’

‘I’m not a wendigo,’ Draco snaps, and then, just to head them off: ‘Or a veela, or a goblin, or a werewolf.’

‘Alright, calm your tits,’ says the girl, and Draco huffs and lets himself into the bathroom.

‘Reckon he wears the cape in bed?’ he hears porn guy ask, muffled through the door.

The girl snickers.

Back in Nicolas’ room, he sits on the end of the bed. Nicolas is lying sprawled out under the blankets, but he rolls over when the bed dips and props himself up on his elbow to look at Draco.

‘I’m heading home,’ Draco tells him.

‘Alright.’ Nicolas glances at the door. ‘Sorry about them,’ he says. ‘They think I have bad taste in men. Just because it took me six months to stop shagging the guy who thought he was a psychic vampire and wouldn’t remove his leather jacket in bed.’

Draco stares at him. ‘Can’t say I disagree.’

‘God will count not my transgressions,’ Nicolas says sagely, yawning widely and flopping onto his back. ‘But rather the tears of my repentance.’ He is so broad, shoulders wide and soft, that the bed seems almost dwarfed by him. It makes Draco want to climb back in. ‘Which I’ll, uh, get to. At some point.’

Crawling up the mattress, Draco leans over to quickly kiss him goodbye. He feels his cheeks warm as he does so, unaccustomed to displaying affection like this. ‘I’ll see you,’ he says.

‘Get a phone,’ Nicolas mumbles into the pillow. ‘Want me to see you downstairs?’

‘I can find my way.’

Draco disapparates from an alley near Nicolas’ house directly into his own living room. He isn’t sure how he feels. Today has been a roller-coaster of _things_ and all Nicolas had to say to the revelation that Draco is a wizard was: _‘Alright, cool.’_

Unfortunately, the day is not done throwing things to deal with at Draco.

He goes into the bathroom, ready to brush his teeth and get ready for bed, but freezes in place as soon as he catches sight of the cabinet mirror in front of him.

The charmed doll is perched on the edge of the sink, facing away from him. One hand is raised and she is pointing at the mirror with a finger that looks like it has been dipped in red paint.

In matching red, smeared on the glass of the mirror, are the words:

_NOT CARINA_

_MELISSA_

‘So, not just a harmless animation charm then,’ Draco says to the doll. Or rather, to Melissa. ‘That better not be blood.’

Draco steps closer, cautiously edging nearer to the doll while maintaining a safe distance, and peers into the glass. He feels bile rise in the back of his throat as he inspects the writing and Melissa’s finger close to. Definitely blood. Eugh. He doesn’t like blood, particularly. He also does not really appreciate being haunted.

But hey, at least it’s a project.


	7. Chapter 7

‘Purely hypothetically,’ says Draco to a couple of his geriatric warlock friends over cucumber sandwiches in the tea-house next to one of their favourite auctions houses. ‘How would you classify a magical object that could move itself independently whenever it was unobserved, seemed to express preferences of its own, and could, er, excrete blood, somehow?’

‘What do you mean by “preferences”?’ asks Barnibus in his wheezing voice, stroking his fluffy grey beard.

Draco takes a sip of his Chardonnay and considers the question. ‘I mean, it might choose a name, or prefer to be in certain rooms, or turn the wireless onto a different station while you’re trying to listen to a show.’

‘You mean, it thinks?’ prompts Ekwrick. ‘It has opinions?’

Barnibus frowns. ‘That would be complicated magic, lad. Not likely to be anything other than Dark Magic.’ He says it disapprovingly. As far as Draco is aware, Barnibus has no specific objection to the dark arts. But, in light of Draco’s history, there seems to be a general discontent with the idea of him getting caught up in it again.

‘As I said, purely hypothetical,’ Draco assures them.

It has been several weeks since Melissa’s writing on the mirror and she has been becoming progressively more outspoken. Unfortunately, Draco does not have many people he can bring her to for advice. He has no intention of trying to sell her on unless he knows precisely what she is. If she is indeed a dark object, it would be unwise of him to advertise her. If the Ministry gets wind of him having unknown, unregulated dark objects, he will be in real trouble. He gets away with his current collection only because he dutifully jumps through every hoop they throw at him, but he cannot risk them catching even a whiff of anything he has not signed one hundred separate forms for.

While mother and father might have some input, they don’t particularly approve of his collection. They would most likely just have him dispose of Melissa, or pass her on.

And Melissa remains benign. She does have a slight tendency to sneak up on him, especially in his bedroom or the living room, but Draco suspects those are simply the places she prefers to be. He tried locking her in one of the cabinets, on account of the fact she’s objectively creepy and jump-scares him approximately three times a day. But she continued to let herself out and turn the wireless onto _BBC Radio 6_ , so eventually Draco gave up and left her to it.

The only other time she has done any blood writing was three days following the last full moon, and that is as ominous as it comes. It was a couple of days after Draco had dragged himself to the café for the first time since the evening spent at Nicolas’ house, back on his regular moon-based schedule. Nicolas had asked Draco if he was doing anything that afternoon, Draco had replied that he was spending the rest of the day face down on the floor and groaning.

Nicolas had offered to help with that. Draco had declined, but made it very clear he would not be opposed to more pleasant lying and groaning in a few days, when he was feeling better. And he did end up spending the night at Nicolas’ house later in the week. When he got home in the morning, after accompanying Nicolas in for his ungodly 7am start, he returned to his flat to find words scrawled in blood on the wall behind his couch:

_AND WHAT TIME DO YOU CALL THIS?_

Frankly, if this is as dark as she gets, Draco can handle her.

‘You aren’t thinking of making something like this?’ Ekwrick asks, suspicious.

Draco helps himself to a egg and watercress sandwich and smiles mildly. ‘Of course not. Why would anyone want something like that?’

 

*

 

‘I like your tattoo,’ Nicolas says one night, tracing the shape of the snake and skull on Draco’s forearm as they lie in bed.

Draco sneers down at it. ‘Do you know what it is?’

‘No?’

‘You’d hate it if you did.’ Draco rolls away, but catches Nicolas’ arm so that it is tugged over his own waist and he can play with his fingers. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says. ‘I can’t work out what you know and what you don’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know about wizards. You know I’m a wizard.’

‘Sure.’

‘But you don’t know about anything that happened. How? Are muggles really all that stupid?’

’That… sounds, um, a bit racist.’

Draco glances over his shoulder. ‘What does?’

_‘Muggle.’_

‘What? No, it’s just a word. Everyone says it.’

‘You want to have this conversation? We can have this conversation. I don’t know the word, but the sweeping generalisations about substandard intelligence and the eugenics vibe you’re giving off are for sure a problem.’

Draco rolls to face away from him again. ‘You are so annoying,’ he tells Nicolas. ‘Literally even the most self-righteous people I know use the word muggle.’

‘What’s the etymology?’

‘Pillow talk, Nico. The word “etymology” shouldn’t come up.’

‘You don’t know, then?’

Draco huffs. ‘I guess it’s just… mug. A bit of an idiot. Gullible. Made into a noun. And then in contrast to wizard: _wise_ -ard. It’s the difference between being ignorant and blind to magic, afraid of it, and being a wizard. Which is obviously better.’

‘You’re not really selling me on this,’ says Nicolas, unconvinced. ‘Still sounds dodgy, mate.’

‘So take it up with the Ministry of Magic or something, not me.’ Draco sulks. ‘I was trying to ask about stuff that’s actually important to me, but if you just want to accuse me of being a bigot, that’s fine, let’s do that instead.’

Nicolas pokes him. ‘What’s important to you? Your tattoo?’

‘No, no. By all means. Keep telling me what a horrible person you think I am.’

‘Get fucked,’ laughs Nicolas. ‘Learn to take constructive feedback. I didn’t say _you_ were horrible, I said the word sounds like it has a shitty history. Take it on board.’

Draco scowls. ‘Thanks, but no.’

‘Tell me about the tattoo.’

‘I don’t want to now.’

‘Yeah, you do. C’mon, why do you hate it?’

Draco buries his face in the flat pillow and mutters, muffled, ‘Because you’re right, it’s bigoted.’ He groans. ‘Do you actually want to know about it?’

Nicolas is quiet for a moment. He has gone uncomfortably still. Draco has to roll over to see his expression, which is etched with distaste. When he speaks his voice is hard and sharp in a way Draco hasn’t heard from him. ‘It’s not a white supremacy thing, right?’

‘No! No,’ Draco says quickly, and feels relieved when Nicolas’ expression relaxes a little. Better to get this off like a plaster. ‘… It _is_ a wizard supremacy thing, though.’

Nicolas raises an eyebrow. ‘I see.’

‘I was barely sixteen. My parents raised me to think that way. And there was this… well, I don’t want to talk about him. But what I mean is—Merlin, do you even know there was a war?’

‘Which war?’

‘It ended in ninety-eight.’

Nicolas looks like he’s thinking. ‘Croatia…?’ No, that’s not—’

‘No, _here.’_ Draco waves it off. ‘Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. The point is that this is a bollocks tattoo from a shitty hate group that no longer exists and I despise it and would like it gone, if I could.’

Nicolas narrows his eyes. ‘Do you still believe in the…?’

‘What, that wizards are superior to muggles?’ Draco snorts, derisively. Then takes in Nicolas’ extremely unimpressed expression and quickly amends his answer. ‘No, of course I don’t.’

‘You said literally exactly that, though. Not five minutes ago.’

‘I meant better at _doing magic,_ didn’t I?’ Draco rolls his eyes. ‘Obviously.’

Nicolas watches him suspiciously, but eventually just goes, ‘Hm.’ Then sighs and changes the subject. ‘You staying over?’

‘Are you working in the morning?’

‘Yeah, but not until ten.’ He leans in, presses a kiss to Draco’s neck. ‘So we could get in another round before getting up.’

Tilting his head back, Draco opens himself up to more warm kisses, which Nicolas indulges by sucking a careful mark into the soft skin below his ear. ‘Yeah, I’ll stay,’ he hums. Melissa won’t be impressed, most likely, but it’s not like he has any other reason to get home at a reasonable hour. Which this already isn’t.

It is hardly like he stays at Nicolas’ place often. In fact, this will only be the second time, out of hardly a handful of scattered hookups over the course of—oh, shit, it’s closing in on Christmas. Several months. He likes how casual things are with Nicolas. He still has yet to cave into purchasing a muggle phone, so they only meet up when Draco drops in on him at work and neither of them have anything else on. One night every couple of weeks. But it’s still by far the most regularly Draco has gotten laid, since—well, ever, he would like to say.

He likes that it is sporadic and non-committal enough to allow plausible deniability. It is not as though he is _dating_ a muggle. He is just sleeping with one, semi-regularly and non-exclusively. Non-exclusively on Nicolas’ part, at least. From what Draco understands he has a perpetual rotation of other guys he is hooking up with who are, according to Em, _“At least as unpleasant and weird as you, Draco, so don’t worry about competition there.”_

‘Mm,’ Nicolas hums, kissing his way down Draco’s neck and nuzzling rough stubble against his skin. One of his broad hands is exploring Draco’s body, lazily and without purpose. As always, Draco is careful to guide where it ends up and subtly redirects Nicolas’ touches whenever they slip too close to anywhere they may brush scars.

‘Hey, sorry I brought up your tattoo,’ Nicolas says after an extended period of sleepy making out. He slumps down heavily on Draco’s chest and closes his eyes.

‘I’m not a bad person,’ Draco replies.

‘No one is that bad if they know why they were wrong, change, make penance and ask forgiveness of the right people,’ Nicolas mumbles.

‘I’m not sure who that would be.’

Nicolas points to the ceiling.

‘Not God,’ Draco says, groaning. ‘I swear you only get religious after one in the morning.’

Nicolas is evidently right on the edge of sleep, his voice just a low, blurry timbre. ‘Oy, I believe in a lot of things.’ He crosses himself lazily with one hand and kisses his thumb. ‘Let me live.’

Reaching up behind them, Draco turns off the fairy lights overhead and watches the moonlight cast shadows on the slanted ceiling. After a while he murmurs, ‘I mean, I think I was a victim as much as anyone. I don’t think I’ve done anything _wrong,_ per se…’

But when he tilts his head to see Nicolas’ response, he finds him already fast asleep, so Draco just huffs and closes his eyes as well.

 

*

 

In mid-December snow starts to fall in soft, swirling flurries and Draco finally gets around to doing his Christmas shopping. He buys mother a collection of slightly steamy books by a witch author she is fond of. For father, he guys a ridiculously old bottle of Spanish port; and quietly, for himself, he buys a Motorola RAZR flip phone.

It is cute, he thinks as he turns it over in his hands at home. He has no idea how to use it, so he spends most of his afternoon and evening sitting on the couch with Melissa propped up next to him, reading the user manual. He only has one number to program in, so he puts Nicolas in the address book and then plays around with taking photos and making ringtones until he realises he’s been playing with it for two solid hours and hates himself a little bit.

Finally—and slowly—he sends Nicolas a text that says: _‘Hi, it’s Draco. I got a phone. Apparently. For you.’_

He is pleasantly surprised with how quickly he receives a reply. There might be something to Lupin’s assertion that it is faster than owls.

 _‘LOL big mistake,’_ Nicolas texts back. _‘prepare 4 a life of midnight booty calls and weird 6am questions.’_

 _‘Okay,’_ Draco replies.

Not thirty seconds later: _‘Q1: when you turn into a werewolf, do you have toe beans? Q1(b): are they cute??’_

 _‘Rude,’_ Draco sends. _‘Invasive. Overly personal. Offensive.’_

_‘whoa OK won’t ask Q2 about werewolf dicks then.’_

In the user manual for the phone there had been a section titled, accurately: _Tip: WANT TO SHOUT YOUR MESSAGE?_ Which Draco really took to heart, so he just sends back:

_‘GOOD.’_

There is actually a distinct lack of booty calling for quite a long while, which is moderately disappointing. Nicolas goes to stay with his family for a fortnight over Christmas and New Year. Draco also spends a few days at the manor. But the full moon falls on Boxing Day, so he has to make his excuses and return to London to transform in privacy.

He goes to the café after his transformation as usual, only to find it closed for the holidays. He wanders around in a bleary daze until he finds somewhere open to eat and sends Nicolas a typo ridden, overly dramatic text about how this is the worst morning of his life.

In response, Nicolas calls him from bed at his parents’ house and Draco can hear his sisters talking with their mother loudly in Portuguese in the background. It sounds like people are making breakfast.

‘Are you with your family?’ Nicolas asks curiously, yawning into the phone.

‘What do you think?’ Draco presses his knuckles into his forehead as he waits for his breakfast to come to his table. ‘You know what last night was.’

‘But they know, right?’

‘No. They don’t.’ Draco says it shortly, irritably. Then sighs. ‘Tell me about your Christmas.’

‘Pretty standard. Evening Mass, _ceia_ at midnight, we had—hold on a tic.’ Nico cuts himself off, holding his phone away from his ear. ‘Eh? What is it?’

‘Mãe is asking if you’re getting up to come help make breakfast or what,’ comes a female voice. ‘Who are you even talking to, Nico? It’s eight-thirty.’

‘Just a friend, Ren. Can’t you bring me something? It’s cold. And I am technically in the dining room.’

‘No. Get up, you lump. If I can’t eat in bed, my baby brother doesn’t get to either.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Nico speaks into the phone again, groaning. ‘I don’t wanna get out of bed,’ he whines at Draco. ‘I’m on a fold out couch and I’ve built a human shaped chasm in the middle of it. I don’t think I can get up.’

‘I should let you go.’ Draco fiddles with a napkin on the table. ‘I’m just going to lie my head down here on this table and die, anyway.’

‘Oh, don’t do that. I was planning to send you naughty messages after everyone has gone to bed tonight.’

(In the background, Draco just hears Nico’s sister say: ‘Ugh!’)

‘Well, that is something to stay alive for, I guess,’ Draco mumbles.

He says goodbye, hangs up, and stares at his phone for several long moments. His hands are shaking. He has not had his coffee yet, he reminds himself. Or anything to eat. He is fragile, and sick, and sore, and broken.

That does not explain the feeling of warmth through his body, or the way his heart is thudding in his throat.

 

*

 

Draco is very good at building walls between aspects of his life. Which is why he texts or calls Nico almost every day for the entire holiday period and yet it isn’t until after Nico returns to London and invites Draco over that same evening, and Draco spends a very, very long time lying between his legs, sucking him off slowly and happily, that he realises he feels closer to Nico than he has to anyone in about seven or eight years.

This realisation hits him hard enough that he chokes on Nico’s dick.

Nico’s hand is already in Draco’s hair, and he groans—but tightens his grip to tilt Draco’s head to look at him and says, ‘You good?’

Draco pulls off Nico’s cock slowly, wipes a long strand of saliva from his mouth, and clears his throat. He can feel his eyes watering a little bit.

He is not quite good. He is not sure how to process the fact that yesterday afternoon he spoke to Nico for an hour and a half about ghosts and how to communicate them, even though Nico has no actual expertise on the matter. He is not sure how to process the fact that Nico suggested an Ouija board and he has been actually considering it. He is not sure what to do about any of this.

‘Question,’ he says, replacing his mouth on Nico’s cock with his hand, stroking over the annoying layer of slick latex between them. ‘You’re having it off with other people, right?’

‘A few guys, yeah. Why?’

Draco toys with the little pocket of air at the top of the condom. It is slippery with precum and he squeezes it gently with his thumb and forefinger, snickering, before stroking back down Nico’s cock. He doesn’t look at his face. ‘Am I your favourite?’

‘Er…’

‘This isn’t jealousy or anything,’ Draco adds. ‘But it’s a simple question, not loaded at all. Am I your favourite?’

‘You are definitely the one currently touching my dick,’ Nico says.

‘A diplomatic response,’ Draco says. ‘You ought to go into politics.’

‘I don’t pick favourites between my friends,’ Nico says pointedly. ‘That’s tacky.’

‘No, you just sleep with all of them.’

‘Not all.’ Nico snorts. ‘Like four, currently.’ He gently tugs Draco’s hair. ‘Hey, get back to choking on my dick, yeah? That was good.’

Draco does. He closes his eyes and swallows Nico as far down his throat as he can until his nose is brushing pubes and there are tears in his eyes. He gags around Nico’s cock as he comes, playing it up and grabbing Nico’s wrist to encourage him to keep hold of his hair, push him down.

After, Nico physically hauls Draco up the bed. He does it easily, grabbing Draco under the arms and pulling him so that Draco screeches with ticklish laughter. He flips him onto his back.

‘Why are you wearing so many clothes?’ he asks as he tries to remove Draco’s robe. It is a robe—a deep rich burgundy velvet—worn over layers and layers of robe-like muggle clothes. Nico manages to work out the ties at the front of the robes and get them off Draco’s shoulders, but gets stuck at the next layer of clothes. ‘I’m into this whole goth couture thing you have going on, but fuck—what am I meant to do with this?’

‘It’s freezing outside,’ Draco points out. ‘And I missed your dick so much that I didn’t have time to get undressed when we got in.’

‘Aw,’ Nico says, and smooches Draco’s nose.

He finally manages to wrangle Draco out of his robes and the top portions of his outfit and Draco makes and immediate dive for the blankets of the bed.

‘No—’ says Nico. ‘I want to see all of you, c’mere. We’re always in the bed, I don’t think I’ve even properly seen you naked.’

Draco’s stomach flips. ‘Did you miss that its the middle of winter?’ he asks. ‘Unless you want me to start a fire—which I _can_ do—I’m staying in bed.’

‘You can’t start a fire in my bedroom.’

‘Then you can’t see me naked,’ Draco counters.

‘You’re also shagging other people, right?’ Nico asks out of nowhere.

Draco blinks. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘You aren’t?’ Nico freezes in the middle of climbing under the bed covers with Draco, halfway through lifting the quilt, so that Draco has to reach out and grab his wrist and tug him properly into the bed so as not to let in cold air.

‘Why would I be?’

Nico furrows his brow. ‘Because we fuck every few weeks,’ he says. ‘That’s not like… enough.’

‘What are you on about? This is the most often I’ve ever had sex.’

Nico’s jaw drops. ‘What?! How?’ He stares incredulously at Draco. ‘How much were you getting before?’

‘Maybe a shitty one night stand every nine months.’

Nico looks horrified.

‘I don’t see the problem,’ Draco says.

‘Come here.’ Nico rolls Draco over to kiss him into the mattress. ‘That is such a shame,’ he says between kisses. ‘That isn’t fair. Not on you. Not on the world.’

Draco snorts. ‘It’s not as though I’m lonely,’ he lies. ‘It’s fine.’

Nico pulls back to look at him. ‘I’m prioritising you,’ he decides. ‘I can’t stand for this kind of injustice. When I’m horny, you’ll be first point of contact from now on, okay?’

Draco quirks a considering eyebrow and smirks. ‘Does this make me your favourite?’

‘If that’s how you want to take it,’ he laughs, before ducking under the blankets to give Draco a blowjob.

 

*

 

‘Don’t take this personally,’ Draco tells Melissa as he sets her down on the table and straightens her dress so that it sits neatly around her knees. He pulls out his wand. ‘We are just doing a few tests.’

He has avoided doing actual magic on the doll, citing the fact that he still does not know what he is actually dealing with and is concerned it could backfire. But he has reached a point now that he has to eliminate a few possibilities if he is going to get anywhere.

The first thing he does, naturally, is attempt to detect any charms, hexes or jinxes upon the doll. ‘Hmm,’ he mutters as she glows faintly silver and tremors from the spell but otherwise remains unresponsive. He opens his mouth to cast _Finite Incantatum,_ just in case it works—but then stops himself. It feels stupid, but he doesn’t want to make Melissa feel unwanted.

‘Looks like you’re definitely magical,’ he says after a few more spells. ‘But nothing simple, is it?’ He picks her up again, turning her around in his hands. He sniffs her. Sometimes jinxes can leave a faint crackling electric scent behind, but she just smells like plastic and porcelain and dusty fabric. Naturally.

He puts her down again. ‘If you are just a very stubborn poltergeist,’ he says firmly, ‘I’m asking that you get out of that doll right now, before I force you out. I’ll give you the count of five, and then I’m doing the spell. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

True to his word he counts slowly to five before casting a spell that McGonagall used to perform to force Peeves out of suits of armour several times a week.

It does nothing.

‘Sorry for this indignity, Melissa,’ Draco says, because he has long since learned his lesson from that bloody hippogriff. ‘But I know you aren’t a poltergeist now. Does that make you a ghost?’ He leans in closer, conspiratorially. ‘Are you a ghost? Do I have the only genuinely haunted doll in the world?’

Melissa does nothing except sit there looking serenely creepy.

Draco picks up his phone. ‘You can put the radio back on,’ he tells her and, a few moments later, the wireless crackles slowly into life and pushes through static until music comes through loud and clear. It is a channel playing muggle music as seems to be Melissa’s preference, and Draco hums along as he texts Nico.

 _‘Are you busy tomorrow?’_ he sends. _‘After work?’_

It takes Nico some time to reply, as he is on the clock—but after an hour or so he texts back that he has the next day off from work entirely.

Draco pauses in what he is doing, which is reorganising the messy spread of antiques sprawling around his living room into the surrounding cabinets while loudly singing along to the radio. He checks the message.

‘Oh, come on Nico,’ he groans as a second message follows the first. This one is just the number eight, three equals signs, a capital D and a question mark. Followed by a winky face.

 _‘No,’_ Draco texts back. _‘Well, maybe later. But I need to buy an Ouija board. Help?’_

 _‘still having ghost troubles?’_ Nico replies.

_‘Haunted doll troubles, yes.’_

There is a bit of a pause before the next message arrives. _‘you sent those out of order,’_ it says when it appears. _‘you LEAD with the haunted doll, talk about burying the lede ffs.’_

 _‘My company is the lede,’_ Draco responds. _‘In or out?’_

Nico’s reply is immediate. _‘SO VERY IN.’_ And then, a second later: _‘TBH you had me @ ouija board.’_

 

*

 

‘You know these things don’t work,’ Nico says the next day as they walk down a street in Eltham. It is an extremely cold day, brisk winds sending flurries of snow to bite Draco’s cheeks, and the pavement they are walking on is slippery with trodden sludge.

‘You said,’ Draco replies through his scarf. He rubs his gloved hands together, shivering. ‘I’m inclined to agree, as a rule. But I didn’t believe in haunted dolls either, and yet here we are.’

‘When you say “haunted”…’

‘Nothing too sinister,’ Draco says fairly. ‘She keeps moving around my flat and occasionally writes in blood on my walls if I get in too late.’

Nico chuckles. ‘Nothing too sinister, he says.’

Draco shrugs. ‘Could be much worse. Trust me.’

‘So, here’s what I don’t get. Why not believe in haunted dolls? You’re a witch or whatever, right?’

‘Wizard, excuse me.’

‘What?’

‘Do I look like a witch to you? You should be well aware that I’m a man at this point.’

‘It’s a gender neutral term.’

‘ _No,_ it’s not.’

‘Alright, if you say so—’

‘It’s my culture, I think I would know.’

‘I said alright. But my point is, why don’t you believe in ghosts? You buy into magic and all that stuff.’

‘What? Of course I believe in ghosts. I’ve known ghosts my whole life.’

‘Oh, you’ve had actual encounters?’ Nico asks, suddenly very interested. ‘You should talk to my friend Kitty, she has an EMF reader and does séances—’

‘You’re so funny,’ says Draco. ‘Hey, hold my hand, I’m cold.’

Nico puts his arm around Draco’s back and slips his hand into the pocket of his long coat, pulling him close as they walk. ‘Better?’

‘Mm, yes. Much.’ Draco slides his hand under Nico’s jacket. ‘The problem is that ghosts don’t possess things, not in the way muggles think they do. A ghost is only an imprint. It cannot interact physically with the world, not really.’

‘But _something_ is possessing your doll?’

‘Maybe, we’ll see. I need to try to talk to her.’

‘You know you can sell haunted dolls on eBay,’ Nico says. ‘There’s a good market for them.’

‘Tempting, but I’d be thrown in Azkaban if the Ministry found out.’

They reach a small shop that looks like a book-store, the words _Welcome to the Realms of Magick_ printed over the door in curling letters. Draco snickers.

‘Is this the place?’

‘I checked online, they should have Ouija boards,’ Nico tells him. ‘I thought you’d be familiar with this kinda shop.’

‘Look at all those candles,’ Draco laughs, unwrapping himself from Nico and stepping towards the door. ‘Tarot cards? This is embarrassing, I love it.’

The inside of the store is quiet, playing soft, mystical sounding music. It is cramped full of narrow aisles of shelving, covered in various ridiculous trinkets that Draco spends much too much time laughing too loudly at.

‘Look at this,’ he calls out to Nico, half crying, when he finds the book section. _‘One-Hundred and One Spells for the Modern White Witch.’_ He flicks through the book, extremely amused. ‘I had no idea muggles wrote this kind of stuff. Aren’t you all terrified of magic? Why make up a bunch of fake spells?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Nico says. ‘This isn’t my speed at all.’

 _‘To banish depression,’_ Draco reads. _‘Light both yellow and pink candles in front of you and chant: “Blessed Goddess of love and light”_ — Okay this is too much, good lord.’ He puts the book back. ‘Where are the—oh, hey! Dittany!’ Distracted, he crosses the store again to find a collection of dried herbs in small, decorated tinctures. He inspects them closely, opens one and sniffs it. ‘Oh, this is good. This is actually useful. I’m buying these.’

Nico is smirking at him, tugging off his scarf and holding his gloves as he stands a few feet behind Draco, watching. ‘There are crystals over by the window,’ he says. ‘If you need any of those.’

Draco looks up. ‘What sort of crystals?’

He winds up spending nearly forty-five minutes in the muggle shop, snickering at all the nonsense they have in stock and collecting anything that looks genuinely useful. To his surprise, he finds a few things he needs for his next batch of wolfsbane, which is handy to know. If he can get these at muggle stores too, that makes life significantly easier. In fact, when Nico finally grabs him the Ouija board and shuffles him toward the counter, in addition to buying an armful of various potion ingredients, Draco puts in a bulk order with the (somewhat annoyed) muggle shopkeeper for next month.

‘She shouldn’t be so rude to a paying customer,’ Draco sniffs as they leave the store. ‘I don’t appreciate being treated like that by a muggle.’

‘I mean, you did loudly mock almost everything in her shop,’ Nico points out. ‘I doubt _she_ appreciated _that_.’

She ought to stop selling nonsense, then.’

‘What type of magic do you practice?’ Nico asks curiously. ‘If not that?’

‘Huh?’

‘I’m just wondering. Yours isn’t like this stuff?’

Draco stares at him, incredulous. ‘I do real magic,’ he says slowly and clearly. ‘You don’t honestly think it’s all, what, shitty dyed candles and athames and books about kitchen magic?’

Nico shrugs. ‘Mate, I’m Catholic, gay and weirdly obsessed with mothman. I can hardly judge how other people practice their belief systems.’

‘Well, I can,’ Draco says. ‘And I will.’

Without really planning what they’re doing, they walk back to the station and get on a southeastern line train back towards home—and Draco doesn’t really realise until fifteen minutes or so into the trip that they’re headed in the direction of _his_ home, not Nico’s.

Which makes sense. Draco has a bunch of shopping with him and little desire to be lugging it around with him anywhere. But still, there are reasons they hook up at Nico’s place rather than his own.

‘What are you doing now?’ Draco asks as they sit on the train. The windows are fogged up from the cold outside and Draco spends his time drawing little doodles of snitches into the condensation with his fingertip.

‘Depends what you’re up for,’ Nico replies. He has his phone out, texting someone, and he doesn’t look up as he speaks to Draco. ‘Uh, I’d be keen on seeing this doll. Dinner, maybe?’

Is he allowed to bring a muggle into a wizarding home? He must be. He has glimpsed muggles in places like Diagon Alley before: families of muggleborns, partners of witches and wizards. If they already know about magic—like Nico does—it must be fine.

The idea seems foreign, slightly discomforting. He narrows his eyes, considering. ‘We’ll go to my place?’

‘If that’s good with you,’ Nico replies. ‘Or I can make other plans if you’ve got stuff on.’

‘No. No, I don’t.’ They have been sleeping together for several months now, Draco realises. Longer, if you count the time at the club. It is getting to a point where it would be weird for him not to let Nico into his house.

They walk past the café on the way back and Nico stops in to say hi to his co-workers because apparently even though he works six days a week, he is codependent enough that he can’t go a day without checking in. Draco waits at the doorway, arms folded and somewhat impatient—but the muggles in the shop wave, greet him familiarly and make him a coffee to take away. Which is nice. Draco’s hands are cold even with his gloves so having something warm to hold is appreciated.

At the entrance to his building, Nico freezes. ‘Shit, this is fancy,’ he says, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. He puts a hand on Draco’s arm. ‘You _live_ here?’

Draco glances at him and opens the door to the entrance hall. It is a period building with a large atrium and marble flooring, gleaming and perfectly maintained. Draco rarely comes in through the main entrance, but he can hardly apparate with Nico. ‘Of course.’

Nico whistles as they cross the open hall toward the elevators, with their gleaming brass Art Deco detailing. He tilts his head up to look at the crystal chandelier built into the high ceiling. ‘I suddenly, er, feel very self-conscious for ever bringing you to my house.’

Draco huffs out a laugh and steps into the lift, but doesn’t say anything. He waits for Nico to follow him before pressing the button for his floor. He doesn’t want to say that the first time he had seen the outside of Nico’s house, with its dusty windows, unkempt garden and ratty sofa sitting out the front, he had been forced to tamp down some fairly rude questions about how anyone could live in such conditions.

‘This way,’ he says when the lift stops and the doors slide smoothly open into the bright, clean hallway. Draco leads Nico to his door at the far end of the hall, trying not to watch as Nico continues to stare around in dumbstruck awe.

Inside his flat, Draco tugs off his scarf and coat, pulls out his wand to cast a couple of quick warming charms, and gestures for Nico (who is just gaping around the interior of Draco’s home) to follow him inside. ‘You should see my manor,’ Draco says, smugly.

‘You have a _manor?’_

‘Well, it’s the family manor.’ Draco bends to unlace his shoes. He drops his shopping next to the bench. ‘Honestly, Nico. It’s like you’ve never been inside a real house before.’

‘I guess I knew you were posh, I just never…’ Nico trails off, shaking his head. ‘You know what? None of my business. I don’t talk about money. I’m just going to try not to freak out too much.’

Draco snickers and throws himself down onto the couch. He pats the cushion next to him. ‘Take off your jacket,’ he says. ‘You want a cuppa or anything?’

Nico wanders slowly over, still looking around with fascination. His eyes fall on the cauldron simmering on the stove-top, brewing this month’s wolfsbane. It is nearly finished: Draco checked this morning when he got up and, thankfully, it is as perfect as ever. He’ll take it tomorrow morning, beginning the week leading up to the full moon. ‘What’s that?’ Nico asks.

‘Potion,’ Draco answers. ‘Don’t touch it, it’s delicate.’

Nico’s gaze slides away from the kitchen and to the locked cabinet above Draco’s head. Draco sighs. That particular one contains mostly a selection of odd little lock-boxes and jars—but also a large cursed mask without eye-holes and a locked grid where the mouth should be. It traps the wearer in unending nightmares, apparently.

‘Come sit down,’ Draco whines. ‘It’s a creepy cursed mask, it’s not anything interesting.’

‘It’s becoming clear whey you’re so blasé about having a haunted doll,’ Nico says. ‘Is there anything in here that _isn’t_ haunted?’

‘Nothing I own is haunted. Some of it is cursed. Most is just hexed or jinxed. And, as you can see, all safely away in display cabinets.’ Draco slides down the couch and pouts. ‘Come over here.’

‘I thought you were going to put the kettle on,’ Nico says distractedly. He is still looking around, drinking everything in.

Draco rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wand. He points it past Nico at the kettle, and charms it to fill up at the sink and settle on the stove to boil. ‘Happy?’

Nico follows the direction his wand is pointed in, stares at the kettle, watches it hover in the air, watches the fire burst suddenly to life on the hub, watches the pot lower itself onto the element. He keeps staring, longer than necessary. ‘Draco…’ he says, faintly.

Draco charms down a couple of mugs and some tea leaves. ‘You take it white, no sugar?’ he asks—but Nico doesn’t respond. He looks almost petrified, perfectly still, eyes wide as a house-elf’s as he watches the tea make itself in the kitchen. ‘Nico?’

Nico swears. Draco isn’t sure what he says because he says it in Portuguese, but he says it with such feeling that Draco is certain it is explicit. Then he says, slightly more emphatically, ‘Motherfucker.’

Draco understands that.

‘What’s—’

‘No, you can fuck off.’ Nico says. ‘Get fucked. No way. Fuck you. Fuck off.’

‘... You seem upset,’ Draco observes.

Finally, Nico moves. He wanders over to the chair adjacent to Draco, sits down heavily, covers his mouth with his hand. He stares past Draco, at the wall. He takes a deep breath. ‘You did magic.’

‘Of course.’

‘No, you _did magic.’_

‘I am not seeing your issue.’ Draco pushes himself to sit up straight, confused. ‘Do you prefer not to see it, or something? Is this some kind of muggle—’

Nico interrupts him. ‘Do it again.’

Draco’s fingers tighten on his wand. ‘Why?’

‘I need to see.’

Hesitating for a moment, Draco points his wand at the cushion down the other end of the couch. He turns it into a snake.

Nico jumps, sucking in a breath.

‘Relax, it’s just a grass snake,’ Draco tells him. ‘It’s harmless.’

‘Why would you do a _snake_ at all?’

‘I’m good at snakes.’ He turns the snake back into his couch cushion, and Nico cautiously sits back down in his own chair. At the same time, their mugs of tea float over from the kitchen and Nico’s hovers next to his hand, waiting for him to take it.

Draco holds out his own hand for his tea to float easily into his fingers, and blows on the drink, eyeing Nico suspiciously. ‘Take your tea,’ he says after a moment. ‘They’ll throw a tantrum if you don’t and this is a good rug.’

Nico glances at his own elbow, starts, and carefully takes the mug from the air, holding it as though weighing it. ‘Fuck off,’ he says again.

‘Why do you keep saying that?’

‘Because I just learned magic is real, you fucking tosser.’

Draco snorts. ‘No you didn’t,’ he replies, laughing. The he pauses, feeling the blood drain from his face. ‘No you didn’t, you’re joking.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You _lied_ to me?’ Draco accuses, jumping to his feet. A large amount of tea splashes over the side of his mug. He can feel himself trembling. ‘You said you knew about werewolves!’

‘What? When did I lie—I do know about werewolves! I’ve studied them for years!’

‘And you said you know a wizard who is a werewolf,’ Draco snaps. ‘You said—’

‘I know a _werewolf,’_ Nico corrects. ‘He isn’t a wizard as far as I know. He’s a video game developer.’

Draco shakes his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If he’s a werewolf, of course he’s a…’ He trails off. It has never occurred to him before that there could be muggle werewolves out there. How would that work, being infected with a magical condition and not knowing about magic? It seems absurd. But… why not? He raises his hand to his mouth, eyes wide. ‘I assumed…’

‘I’ve also never met him,’ Nico adds, looking a bit uncomfortable. ‘Not in person. We’re mates online but he lives in Arkansas.’

Sinking back into the couch, Draco stares at Nico, incredulous. ‘So what on earth did you think I meant when I told you I was a wizard?’

‘I dunno, that you were wiccan or something. Or like that stuff in the shop we went to.’

‘You thought I was a crazy muggle who pretended to do fake magic for, what? For fun?’

Nico shrugs. ‘You’re the one who says crazy. I was leaning toward mildly eccentric, at worst. And if you can’t tell, mildly eccentric is my patented Type.’

Draco ignores him and stares at the ground, his hand still covering his face. ‘I’ve broken the Statute of Secrecy,’ he realises.

‘Magic is real,’ Nico breathes.

They both sit in silence for a long moment. Slowly, because it’s really all they can do, they both drink their tea.

Is breaking the Statute that bad, really? Draco has done worse, by far. One muggle learning about magic isn’t considered more than a fineable offence at most—and that is if anyone finds out. He _could_ just obliviate Nico and be done with it. But he doesn’t want to.

Nico seems to be taking it well. He has not lost his mind or panicked. He is just looking around and occasionally shooting Draco searching glances. He has mostly stopped swearing, except occasionally, under his breath.

‘You can’t tell anyone,’ Draco says after a time, cutting the processing silence. ‘There are laws. I could get in trouble. And—and it’s possible that I would be made an example of, because of what I am.’ He doesn’t clarify whether he means werewolf or ex-Death Eater. Nico doesn’t understand the latter, he’ll likely assume the former. That suits Draco in this instance.

‘I won’t,’ Nico promises. Draco finds that he trusts him. It has been a while since he has implicitly trusted someone. ‘So, this is just a thing, is it? Are there many other wizards around?’

‘Yes,’ Draco answers simply. ‘I mean, no. We make up less than point zero-three percent of the population in Great Britain. Or around that. But there are still, you know, thousands of us.’

‘And what can you do?’

‘I don't—that's like asking what's on the internet,’ Draco says, an example he uses because he did once ask someone what was on the internet. ‘Magic can do almost anything. I'm particularly good at making potions, doing charm work, transfiguring objects. But it is everything, I can't just…’

Nico cards his fingers through his hair and says, ‘This is nuts. I need to do so much more research, now.’

‘I could tell you my personal theory about mothman,’ Draco offers, and Nico looks at him as though he hung the moon.

At some point while Draco is explaining Polyjuice Potion and the side effects of ingesting animal matter, Nico moves across to the couch next to Draco and sits close beside him, sliding an arm across the back of the chair.

‘Stop me if this is too much,’ Draco says.

‘I can’t believe you’re rich,’ Nico replies disbelievingly.

He stays over that evening, but it is different to their usual nights together. Instead of shagging (usually the first item on the agenda) Nico spends hours asking questions. First about wizards and then, with mounting excitement, about werewolves and magical creatures. They have dinner and Draco tells Nico about the Forbidden Forest and then is forced to dissuade him from planning a camping trip up to Scotland when he sees the light gleaming in his eyes.

‘You wouldn't even be able to find it,’ he insists. ‘The whole region is full of anti-muggle charms, you'd just be wandering aimlessly out in the Highlands and I’d have to come collect you.’

‘Could you take me there? Would I be able to find it if I were with you?’

‘I'm not taking you to that fucking forest. I hate it there, it's literally full of weird shit. Werewolves and unicorns and doxies and centaurs and thestrals—’

Nico looks like he doesn't know where to start. ‘Draco, please,’ he begs. ‘Please, please, Draco, please.’

‘No. I hate camping. Also it's right next to my old high school, which is the last place I ever want to go back to.’

He manages to distract Nico with stories of Hogwarts for a while. Unfortunately, for some reason, what interests Nico most is the genetic composition of Blast-Ended Skrewts, when Draco accidentally lets that one slip. So he's stuck explaining what he understands about cross breeding manticores for much longer than he would prefer.

Nico's questions about physiology and genomes go way over Draco's head. ‘You're too excited about the wrong part of this,’ Draco says eventually, exasperated. ‘You're hung up on some stupid abominations I did a class project on when I was fourteen. I don't think you understand. We could be talking about alchemy or divination or potions which can literally give you _liquid luck.’_

‘Uh huh,’ Nico says, distracted. He has pulled out his phone.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Checking for reports of these Skrewts on the forums. Something is ringing a bell, and I—’

Draco casts expelliarmus and sends Nico's phone flying across the room.

 

*

 

When the sun has been set for hours and Draco is tired of talking and Nico—well, Nico is not tired of asking questions, because he apparently never is, but is agreeable enough when Draco silences him by climbing into his lap and kissing him, Draco finally manages to get them to bed.

He has more or less forgotten that Nico came over in the first place to see Melissa until he catches sight of her sitting on the dresser in front of the mirror with her tiny plastic hands over her eyes.

Draco extracts his hands from the back of Nico’s jeans where he was groping his arse. He reaches out to turn Melissa around so that she faces the wall.

Oh,’ Nico comments. ‘That’s… that’s the doll, then.’

‘That’s Melissa,’ confirms Draco. He turns and pushes Nico toward the bed. Merlin, but it will be nice to fuck on a _real_ bed, not the squeaky, worn one that Nico has in his bedroom. Draco puts effort into his comfort. His mattress cost more than Nico has probably ever had in his bank account at one time, and is laced with softening charms, soothing charms, warming charms. His quilt is luxurious, thick and soft and silk. And _imported_. He’s fond of Nico’s bed, because it usually has Nico in it, but it’s a mess of old blankets, most of them with patchwork holes and faded with age.

But Nico doesn’t get on the bed. ‘Oh, she’s got a name,’ he says with forced casualness that comes out a pitch higher than normal. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. ‘Yeah, nah, sorry. Can you move her to another room?’

Draco glances at Melissa. He smirks. ‘What? I’ve turned her around.’

‘Mm, yep. I’m not, I’m just not fucking in the same room as a haunted doll. It’s not happening.’

‘Look, she covered her eyes,’ Draco says. ‘She can’t see anything.’

‘She can hear things, though.’ Nico keeps shaking his head. ‘Nope. Not gonna happen.’

‘Picky, picky, picky.’ Chuckling, Draco picks up Melissa from the dresser and brushes her hair away from her face. He lowers her hands from her eyes. ‘Sorry Nico is so rude,’ he says to her. ‘How about you settle down in the living room and I’ll put the wireless on for you?’

‘I’m not being rude,’ Nico says firmly. ‘One: I’m setting boundaries, and that is valid. Two: you don’t know who is haunting her! She could be a child!’

Draco looks at Melissa. ‘She’s not a child,’ he says. ‘I don’t think so. I hope not. I let her listen to some pretty violent stuff on the radio.’ He eyes her suspiciously. ‘Hmm. No, I’m pretty sure she’s an adult.’

‘Honestly, either way,’ Nico insists. ‘This is just a hard line for me. Look at her. She's dead-eyed and creepy.’

‘Of course she's dead-eyed.’ Draco carries her out of the room, calling over his shoulder as he settles her down on the chair by the window. ‘Would you prefer it if she had living, human eyes?’

‘Point taken,’ he hears Nico say. Turning on the wireless, Draco prods the volume up a little bit higher than usual, for Melissa's sake.

He goes back into the bedroom. Nico has dropped down on the bed, and seems to be moaning from how comfortable it is. Crossing the room, Draco climbs onto the mattress behind him and wraps his arms around his chest, kissing the nape of his neck.  

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. ‘I've heard that muggles can lose their minds from fear of the unknown when encountering magic. That it is just too much to comprehend and they go violent and crazy rather than accept it.’

‘I think I'll manage,’ Nico says dryly. ‘Thank you for checking in.’

‘It is purely selfish.’ Draco slips his hands down to the bottom of Nico's shirt, tugging it up. ‘I have no desire to be burned at the stake.’

‘I think we've progressed beyond that, don't you?’ Nico says, and twists around. He catches Draco by the waist and tips him back into the bed so that he lets out a surprised squeak.

In the morning, Draco takes his wolfsbane before breakfast as Nico hurriedly eats some cereal before he has to head down to the café for an early start.

‘What's that?’ he asks, pulling a face at the smell of the potion.

Draco doesn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he tells him. ‘It lets me keep my mind while I'm a werewolf.’

It is the first time Draco has ever said the words _I'm a werewolf_ all at once, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun, have a link to my silly [Nico themed tumblr](https://nicoandthemothman.tumblr.com/).


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

‘Don’t look,’ scolds Draco, kicking at Nico’s legs under the blankets to keep him away. It is mid-morning, far too late to be in bed, really—but there are heating charms on the blankets and the rest of the room is chilly enough that neither of them has any desire to get up.

‘What are you writing?’ Nico tries to get a glimpse of Draco’s phone screen. ‘Why can’t I have a look?’

‘Nothing. It’s a secret.’ Draco kicks him again, pulling the phone in close to his chest. ‘You can read it when I’m done.’

‘Oh no, mysterious.’ Nico cranes his neck to see but rolls away, grinning, when Draco shoves his hand in his face and pushes him back.

After a few more minutes tapping at the keys, Draco presses send and Nico’s phone buzzes.

Draco immediately regrets sending it.

He dives across Nico’s body and grabs his wrist, trying to snatch the phone before he can reach for it. ‘No, I’ve changed my mind!’

Nico slaps his hand. ‘Give me my bloody phone,’ he laughs, prising Draco’s fingers off from where they are holding fast to the device. ‘You lunatic.’

Draco climbs on top of him, kneeing him in the stomach as he tries to fall far enough over Nico’s broad body to get both hands on the phone and delete the text.

Expelling a forceful burst of air, Nico wraps both arms around Draco’s waist and rolls him over. They wrestle for the phone. Nico has physical strength on Draco, but Draco fights dirty. He pinches Nico’s arm as he tries to get the phone out of his hand—but Nico eventually overpowers him and pins him to the bed, climbing over him and trapping both of Draco’s wrists with one hand, and flipping the phone open with the other.

‘Now, lets see what we have here,’ he says, and reads the message. A slow grin spreads over his face. He clears his throat.

 

_‘How dare a muggle befuddle me,_

_Into being so soppy and puddly,_

_As to write him a poem,_

_Only to show him,_

_That I think he is quite nice and cuddly.’_

 

‘I didn’t write that,’ Draco says quickly. ‘My phone was hacked.’  

‘Do you take constructive criticism?’

‘No, because that wasn’t me.’

Nico vibrates with laughter. ‘This is really the stance you’re going to take?’

‘I’m telling you, someone hacked my phone.’

‘You don’t even know what hacking is, you just saw someone say that on _Hollyoaks.'_

Low blow, but accurate. Since he has been spending at least one or two nights a week at Nico’s house lately, he has taken to sneaking downstairs when it’s time for the show, leaving Nico to mess around with his blog and instead joining Em and Pauline (one of the girls from downstairs, but the one who hasn’t ever accused him of being a vampire) in their regular Hollyoaks watch. He is also, admittedly, not entirely sure what phone hacking entails. But he knows it would absolve him of culpability.

Nico scans the limerick one more time, tongue sticking out between his teeth, before flipping the phone closed and throwing it across the bed. He leans down and pecks the corner of Draco’s mouth, pulling back teasingly when Draco tries to chase the kiss. He tightens his hold on Draco’s wrists, keeping him in place.

It has been weeks now since Nico found out about magic and somehow nothing has really changed, except that Nico now spends almost as much time here as he doesn’t.

Heat rushes through Draco and he squirms on the sheets.

‘I didn’t get you anything for Valentines day,’ Nico tells him, unapologetic. ‘That isn’t really my…’

‘Neither did I,’ Draco quickly replies. ‘Didn’t even realise it was today until fifteen minutes ago. I just thought it would be funny.’

Nico looks relieved. He brushes his lips to Draco’s again, pulling back just when Draco tries to arch up and deepen the kiss.

Draco wriggles again. He likes that Nico is stronger than him and can easily hold him in place like this. He has suggested that he would like to play around with it more—teasing Nico by text or when they are out with vague suggestions that have yet to become reality. _I want you to hold me down and pull my hair and fuck me until I scream and you have to cover my mouth._

But it is very quickly too much. Tension, and not the good kind, starts to coil inside him and he hastily says, ‘Let me go.’

Nico does. He releases Draco’s wrists and sits back so that his arse is resting on Draco’s pyjama clad thighs. Gently, he strokes his hand down Draco’s chest, teases at the waistband of his soft cotton pants with his fingertips. ‘No?’

‘Not like that, not right now.’

‘All good,’ Nico says easily. He shuffles down the bed instead, pushing the quilt down as he goes so that Draco is prompted to reach for his wand tucked under the pillow and cast a quick charm to warm up the room as more of his body is exposed to the crisp February morning air. Bending down, Nico bumps his nose to the shape of Draco’s half-hard cock through the fabric of his pyjamas. Breathing out damply against the fabric, he drags his lips over the shape of Draco’s prick.

Draco isn’t half hard for long. Nico is phenomenal at this. He keeps his eyes trained on Draco’s expression and teases him with his mouth and hands, watching for every minute reaction, speeding up, slowing down. It is rarely like this. Draco is usually picky about making sure they do it in the dark, or keeping Nico’s face level with his own, or doing whatever he needs to to ensure he isn’t exposed.

But right now the sun is streaming into the room, cool but bright, and Draco is stretched out luxuriously on the bed as Nico mouths at him. He is not going to do anything to change this situation, at least not so long as Nico keeps things through fabric.

And he might. Nico is all about barriers. It wouldn’t be the first time he has gotten Draco off through his pants, simply because if he gets lazy about finding a condom he is keen on keeping things hands only and preferably separated by something. It’s still not Draco’s favourite thing, lacking a sort of filthy intimacy that he enjoys, but he can appreciate it.

And he appreciates _this,_ especially. Nico building him up slowly, kissing his stomach, nuzzling at his prick, rubbing and squeezing him until Draco is panting and writhing on the bed.

But then Nico says, ‘Can I get these off?’ and tugs at the top of Draco’s pants.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. He is not wearing anything under the cotton. His self-preservation instinct is to say no—but Nico is asking, and he wants… he wants to be able to _relax._

‘Yes, if you—yes.’

‘Do you have a condom?’ Nico asks, in a slightly sing-song voice, because he says this every single time and knows it gets on Draco’s nerves. It’s just a blowjob, honestly.

Draco exhales. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yeah, I guess? But that’s not the point.’

‘I have a potion in my cabinet,’ he says. ‘If we both take it after this, there’s no chance of anything catching. Not that I think we need it, but it’s more effective than a bit of latex, anyway.’

Nico looks thoughtful. ‘Alright, how about both?’ He peels down Draco’s pyjamas, kissing down his stomach as he does so. ‘This time.’

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, apprehension coiling inside him. He can sense the moment that Nico looks down and sees what Draco is so afraid of him seeing, because he can feel him freezing in place, can feel his hands—halfway through removing Draco’s pants—go still.

 _Don’t say anything,_ Draco silently pleads. He has no desire to explain himself. He only wants to be naked in bed in daylight with his, with Nico. He only wants someone to be able to see him, fully, and not look at him with disgust.

‘Draco…’ Nico murmurs hesitantly.

Draco knows he has gone stiff, his face screwed up, hands clenched at his sides. ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Ignore them.’

After a pause: ‘I don’t think I can.’ It’s the worst thing he could say. It makes Draco wince and bring up both hands to cover his still closed eyes. But Nico catches one of his arms, pulls it away from his face. ‘No, look at me.’

‘I’m telling you, you don’t have to—’

‘These look fresh,’ Nico says. ‘I don’t want to pry, I really don’t. But if you’re being hurt, or—’

Draco cuts him off. ‘They aren’t fresh. I’ve had them nearly ten years.’ He groans and drops his other hand from his face, opens his eyes. He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Nico. Deep brown eyes are looking back at him with open concern. Wearily, he says: ‘Look at them. What do they look like to you?’

It takes a moment for Nico to break eye contact, but he does and looks back down at Draco’s thighs, frowning. ‘I don’t… Bites,’ he finally says. His voice cracks on the word, and after he says it he clears his throat.

He is still holding onto Draco’s arm and Draco twists his hand to take Nico’s, squeeze once. This is the worst reaction he could have had: pity. ‘This one,’ Draco says, moving Nico’s hand to the inside of his thigh, higher, further back. He feels fingers brush over the wound there and then recoil. And then, return. Trace the shape of the bite curiously. It’s Nico, Draco realises. He is always curious. ‘What does that look like to you?’

‘It looks…’ Nico’s voice is still shaky, but he takes a deep breath. ‘Different to the other ones. Um. Where it looks like the incisors have left marks, the morphology is oval. There is a hole-and-tear effect, which is paradigmatic of canine bites. The shape of the maxilla is…’ He trails off. ‘Fuck. This is a werewolf bite.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this how you…?’

‘Yeah.’

Nico rearranges himself, sitting up but still tracing the shape of the marks on the side of Draco’s thighs with his fingers. Draco almost can’t believe that he is letting him. The idea of anyone touching him there has always seemed impossible, but the way that Nico is touching him is so gentle and clinical that he finds he doesn’t mind.

‘But these ones are human,’ Nico observes. He brushes his forefinger over the curve of one bite. ‘Rectangular incisors, triangular canines. A smaller arch and intercanine distance.’

Draco rubs his eyes. ‘They’re not human. He just wasn’t transformed when he did those. That’s why none of them are healed. Werewolf bites are cursed.’

Nico stops looking at the marks. Instead he crawls up the bed and lies down next to Draco. He takes his hand again and looks down at their interlocked fingers and not at Draco’s face. For a long time, he is quiet.

Draco breaks the silence. ‘It’s disgusting. That’s why I didn’t want you to know they were there.’

‘No, it’s not disgusting. If you think I’d be put off—’

‘Of course you are.’

‘No, I’m not. Don’t tell me how I feel.’ Nico rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. Still not meeting Draco’s eyes. ‘I never thought about how you became a werewolf, really. I guess I just thought it was something random, untargeted. That’s not right, is it?’ He shakes his head. ‘You don’t have to answer that.’

‘Good,’ Draco says—but instead of going silent, withdrawing as he has all these years, he finds that the words form on his tongue. ‘You’re right. He chose me.’ He snorts. ‘He probably wouldn’t agree with that. He would say it was the other way around. But I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t know how to protect myself. I thought I was in control, I thought I was so smart. I thought I could be the one with power. But I wasn’t. Not for a moment, even when I convinced myself I was. He preyed on me. He wanted to make me the same as him.’

‘How old were you?'

'Sixteen,’ Draco says. ‘Barely. He was… much older.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Nico replies.

Draco lets out a bitter laugh. ‘It definitely was that. I put myself in that situation. Just to be clear: sixteen year old Draco was a git and a piece of fucking work, and the only version of myself I despise more than him is fifteen year old Draco who thought all that nonsense was going to be cool.’ He shrugs. ‘It was my fault I looked at a werewolf three times my age and thought that that was a state of affairs I could handle.’

‘The person to blame is the person who did this to you,’ Nico tells him—and now he is looking Draco in the eyes, firm and insistent. ‘When  people hurt you, you can learn and become stronger. And you did.’

‘Did I?’ Draco asks. ‘I’m not too sure about that. I built walls.’

‘Walls can be strong.’

‘True.’

‘Can I ask—what happened?’

‘Oh, to him? He died. A couple of years later, probably after killing and mauling a whole lot of other people. Good riddance to the monster.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Right? It was that kind of time. You’re lucky you missed it.’

‘I mean it,’ Nico says after a period of weighted silence. ‘I don’t have a problem with the scars. I think you’re fucking gorgeous. Head to toes. That hasn’t changed, not even a little bit.’

‘Thank you,’ Draco says, and then starts to laugh softly. ‘Although it’s definitely a _little bit.’_

It takes Nico a moment, but then he is stifling a snort too. ‘Oh, shit—no, I didn’t mean that,’ he says. ‘Oh that isn’t funny. _A little bit._ Hah.’

‘It’s kind of funny.’ Draco laughs until he feels breathless, light and dizzy and weightless. It isn’t really from the joke, but from Nico laughing too, and from Nico’s lips shaking against his as he leans in to kiss him.

 _Happy Valentines Day,_ he thinks to himself, but it feels sick and he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

*

It is Nico’s day off from work and when they do finally make it out of bed he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get anywhere or do anything, which suits Draco just fine. Although he feels like he should be upset by the conversation this morning (not to mention the interrupted blowjob), he finds that he is in a great mood. He lights the fireplace with an easy wave of his hand as he goes to the kitchen to check his wolfsbane, so that crackling warmth fills the apartment, and dances to a Klaudia and the Owlets record while he charms the tea to make itself.

Nico follows him and wraps his arms around his waist from behind, swaying along to the music and watching Draco inspect the wolfsbane. There is nothing to do for the potion right now except check the heat and make sure it is simmering properly.

‘This sounds like Alanis Morissette.’

‘What? Klaudia?’ Draco tilts his head to tap the flame under the cauldron with his wand and lower it. ‘You reckon?’

‘Is she a witch?’

‘Obviously. I don’t listen to muggle music.’

‘That is a blatant lie.’ Nico slaps Draco arse lightly and steps back to check the kitchen cupboards for something to eat for a very late breakfast. ‘I heard you listening to Britney not two days ago.’

‘That was Melissa, not me,’ Draco says, glancing accusingly at the doll. She is sitting calmly in the spare chair, looking serene.

They haven’t tried the Ouija board with her yet. Caution and scepticism keep getting in the way.

Nico pulls out a box of cereal from the pantry and starts to sing under his breath. ‘ _Oh, the taste of your lips I’m on a riiide, you’re…?’_

 _‘Toxic, I’m slipping under—’_ Draco automatically finishes: then shoots Nico an annoyed look when he hears him chuckle. ‘Fine, you got me. I know one muggle song. Do you feel good now?’

‘Yep.’ Nico pours out his cereal into a bowl, grabs the entire milk bottle from the fridge, and takes both over to the couch near the fireplace to settle comfortably down.

‘Excuse me,’ Draco says waspishly, walking over and putting his hands on his hips. ‘I have a question.’

‘Shoot,’ Nico says, pouring a splash of milk into the bowl.

‘What exactly was stopping you from doing the milk in the kitchen and then putting the bottle back in the fridge like a normal person?’

Nico blinks. ‘The cereal would get soggy.’

‘In the six seconds it took you to walk over here?’

‘Er, yeah? This way I can control how soggy it gets.’

‘It’s cereal. It’s meant to be soggy.’

‘I’m going to put the milk back after, what’s the problem?’

‘I’m criticising the rationale, not the location of the milk.’

Nico grins. ‘Alright, and is there any reason I’m not allowed to just eat my bloody breakfast the way I want to without being subject to your criticism?’

Draco sits down and catches his teacup from the air. Nico is getting the hang of this too. He holds out his hand expectantly and lets the mug slide easily into his hand. ‘No,’ Draco admits. ‘It’s just for the sake of being critical.’

‘Can’t fault that, I ‘spose,’ Nico replies around a mouthful of Weetabix.

‘I simply don’t see—’ Draco starts, but he is cut off.

Nico is pointing to the fireplace. ‘Your—the fire did a thing,’ he says. ‘Spat out a letter.’

Draco furrows his brow and follows the direction he is pointing. Nico is not wrong. There is, indeed, a little folded up note sitting on the rug in front of the fire, sealed with red wax. It is smoking at the edges. Draco gets to his feet.

‘Why not owl?’ he mutters to himself, but bends down to pick up the letter and opens it. He scans it quickly and breathes, ‘Oh, fuck.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You have to go.’ Draco turns around and frantically scans the room. He grabs Melissa off the other chair and hands her to Nico, who fumbles his cereal to hold her—but does not move to get up.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a warrant,’ Draco explains, panicking. ‘They’ll be here any second. They are _spot checking._ Bastards. Fucking liars. This is just because I—Nico, get _up,_ you have to _go._ And take Melissa.’

‘I don’t want the haunted doll,’ Nico objects, still not moving. ‘What are you getting spot checked for?’

‘Dark artefacts.’

‘I’m not one of those,’ Nico says. ‘So I don’t see why I should—’

Draco does not have time to argue. The fire suddenly flares up again and, to Draco’s horror, two Ministry wizards step out of the hearth, one after the other.

He is very strongly aware of the fact that he is wearing his pyjama pants and a cardigan with nothing underneath, and Nico is just in his boxer shorts. The Ministry wizards are in full hit wizard uniform, severe and imposing. The impact is mixed, given that both wizards look younger than Draco by a couple of years and one still has acne.

‘Draco Malfoy?’ one asks, his voice cracking pubescently.

Trying to look as haughty as he can in his pyjamas, Draco says, hopefully with all the authority his father can muster in these situations, ‘What is the meaning of this? Why are you intruding in my home?’

‘You received our warrant?’ the second hitwizard asks, sounding a little more like a grown adult, at least. He is, however, the one covered in teenage pimples and the effect is incongruous.

‘Thirty seconds ago, yes,’ Draco spits. ‘And I’m afraid I still don’t understand the purpose of this inspection.’

‘It’s standard procedure. Clause 78.3(d) of the Surveillance and Monitoring of Dangerous Persons and Goods Act, 1999.’

‘Persons _and_ Goods,’ Draco repeats slyly. He is well aware of the Act, and he hates it. The fact that they do have legal jurisdiction to be here doesn’t mean he is not going to make it annoying for them. ‘Isn’t that a little broad? Which category does this—or do I—fall under?’

‘Both,’ answers the spotty hitwizard.

‘Who’s this?’ asks the other one, gesturing at Nico.

‘Rude,’ says Nico from the couch.

‘It’s none of your business who he is,’ Draco adds. ‘I don’t believe there is a clause in your precious Act that says I have any obligation to tell you anything about anyone who happens to be in my flat when you choose to barge in, uninvited.’

‘The Home Inspection Policy and Procedure—’ starts the hitwizard and Draco holds up a hand to cut him off.

‘—Applies to you, not to me. You may ask who he is, but I do not have to answer. If he makes you feel uncomfortable, you are more than welcome to leave.’

‘I don’t know you, mate,’ the hitwizard says to Nico. ‘What’s your surname?’

‘You don’t have to tell them,’ Draco says—but Nico has already replied.

‘Pereyra.’

Draco sighs.

‘That’s not a wizarding name, is it?’

‘Fine!’ Draco throws his hands in the air. ‘He’s a muggle. He’s here, and he’s a muggle. Put it in your risk assessment, who cares?’

‘Oh, we will,’ says the hitwizard threateningly. ‘We _will_ put it in our risk assessment.’

‘Now what do you _want?’_

‘To inspect the dangerous goods,’ the spotty hitwizard replies. He points to the cabinet closest to him. ‘Can you open this for me?’

Draco exhales and summons his keys, crossing the room. ‘I have papers for all of these.’

‘We’ll want to see those too.’

The inspection takes a long time. Draco spends the whole thing following the hitwizards around, watching them closely and producing forms, records and licenses for each of the items in his collection.

Nico spends the whole inspection sitting in the same spot on the couch, finishing his cereal and looking stormier and stormier as the examination drags on. His eyes are trained on the two hitwizards and as time creeps slowly by he begins to interject, asking pointed questions about what they’re looking for and why they’re taking so long when it is perfectly evident that Draco has everything in order.

The hitwizards don’t seem to know what to make of him.

‘Just doing our jobs, sir,’ says the first one. ‘It doesn’t concern you.’

‘I’m asking questions,’ Nico replies. ‘You not open to a bit of transparency? The law only works when it is candid and explicit to the people it serves.’

‘Which you’re not,’ points out the second hitwizard.

Nico’s voice goes even darker. ‘Oh, I _see.'  
_

Fortunately, the hitwizards seem to take Nico’s growing impatience as a cue to wrap up. Finally, after checking the papers for almost every object Draco has in the flat, they return to the living room and look around. Draco’s eyes flicker to Melissa, hoping they don’t ask to inspect her. He sees one of them look at the doll curiously, but—perhaps because Nico is holding her and they are starting to find Nico more trouble than the effort is worth—they don’t mention her.

‘Are we done here?’ Draco asks sharply. The hitwizards share a look.

‘Fine,’ the spotty one says. He pulls out his wand. ‘We’ll obliviate the muggle and report back to the Department.’

‘You’ll what?’ Nico interjects, alarmed, just as Draco takes a step forward.

He stands between the hitwizards and Nico, blocking them from approaching. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You won't.’

‘You know the law, Mr. Malfoy. The guidelines are plenty clear about the circumstances under which a muggle can know about magic. This is a clear violation of Statute.’

‘He’s my boyfriend,’ Draco says pointedly. ‘Or do you want me hiding what I am from the person I love?’

The hitwizard shrugs. ‘I mean, ideally, yeah.’

‘Get lost,’ says Draco.

Blessedly, they leave. With one more scan of the room, they grab some floo powder from the mantelpiece and step into the flames one at a time. Once they are gone, Draco lets out a short, angry expletive and stamps his foot. He is breathing heavily.

‘That was ridiculous,’ Nico immediately says, sounding almost as angry as Draco feels, to his surprise. ‘How dare they. How _dare_ they!’

The conviction in Nico’s voice is intense, furious, and Draco turns to face him, somewhat confused. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘That’s the Ministry of Magic for you. They think they—’

‘That was profiling!’

‘Well, yes.’

‘It’s not acceptable,’ Nico says, indignant. He puts Melissa down and stands. ‘I can’t believe they would do that. And that thing at the end there, with me. What the fuck was that about?’

‘They wanted to wipe your memories.’

‘They wanted to—’ Nico splutters. ‘They can do that? That’s—really? That would be an invasion of my autonomy, that’s completely inhumane.’

‘It’s standard procedure,’ Draco tells him. ‘Part of how we keep our existence hidden from muggles. It’s not harmful. It’s generally for the muggles’ own good.’

‘Draco, you’re joking. Not harmful?! Do we get any say in this?’

‘Er, no, of course not.’

‘Then wizards don’t get to make that decision,’ Nico says fiercely. ‘I don’t consent to that. I refuse to accept that could _ever_ be for my own good.’

‘But you’re special,’ Draco says. ‘You have adapted to learning about magic exceptionally well, most muggles aren’t like you. Most are scared, stupid, frightened of what we are. Most muggles are weak, and intolerant, and—’

 _‘No,_ we’re not.’

Draco stares at Nico. He hasn’t seen him like this, ever. There is a fire burning behind his eyes, furious. He is not raising his voice and he doesn’t seem to be angry _at_ Draco, but it’s still surprising. Nico, who is usually unflappable and steady, standing tense and looking livid.

‘Maybe you don’t see it,’ Draco starts, but Nico interrupts him.

‘There is no excuse,’ he says, voice low. ‘Not ever, for manipulating someone’s perception of reality. For changing how they think to coerce or deceive them. It is harmful and it is wrong.’

‘I didn’t let them do it to you.’

Nico’s expression softens a little. ‘No. You didn’t. Thanks.’

‘What I said,’ Draco adds quickly. ‘Was because of the law—’

‘Yeah, I was going to get to that. Big language there, mate.’

Draco tenses. ‘We are allowed to marry muggles and the like. In those situations… these days, exceptions can be made. To tell our partners, family members, stuff like that. But if they knew we were just, you know…’

‘Messing around.’

‘Yeah. That. They might not, er, that might not be enough. I didn’t want them to push the matter.’

Nico nods. ‘Well, good then. I appreciate it. You didn’t mean anything by it.’ He sounds relieved.

‘No, of course not.’ Draco’s stomach sinks slightly. ‘Only to protect that brain of yours. It is, after all, my third or fourth favourite thing about you.’

Nico quirks an eyebrow and smiles lopsidedly—but the change in demeanour doesn’t last long. Almost instantly he’s back to getting fired up. ‘That’s honestly reprehensible,’ he says. ‘That they do that to us. And you! _You!’_

‘What did I do?’ Draco asks indignantly.

‘No, what they’re doing to you. Targeting you! They were looking for anything they could find to pull you up on. It didn’t matter that you had permits for everything, if they’d stayed any longer they would have made something up.’

Draco scowls. ‘Of course. Any excuse to drag me in front of the Wizengamot. It wouldn’t be the first time. Several years ago they had me on trial every other month, even after they ran out of things to legitimately pull me in for. Sanctions so I couldn’t work, so I couldn’t finish school.’

‘Seriously? Fuck.’

‘That’s the way they operate, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s fucked up.’

‘Yeah.’

‘All just because you’re a werewolf.’

‘Ye—’ Draco pauses. ‘No. No, they have no idea I’m a werewolf. Merlin, Nico. What on earth do you take me for?’

Nico blinks. ‘They don’t know?’

‘No! No one knows! Hardly anyone. If they knew, I’d be—my life would be over.’

‘Then… then why were they going through all your stuff?’

‘Because of the war!’ Draco crosses the room, throws himself down in the armchair. ‘Because I was on the losing side and this new _reformed_ administration is hell bent on making life impossible for people like me.’

‘Werewol—’

‘Death eaters. I’ve told you before. I made mistakes, and I regret it, and it’s fucked up every minute of my life since. Everything these days is just _finding ways to stop it happening again_ , which inevitably translates to punishing me, personally, and my family, because we’re some of the only ones who managed to keep ourselves out of prison. So we’ve got to be made an _example of_. “Oh, Malfoy, did you want to travel overseas? I’m afraid you’re not allowed to portkey anywhere further than Cardiff, because you’re _a security risk_.” “Oh, Malfoy, no, you can’t work in the Ministry. Of course not! What if your _views_ polluted the system?” “Oh, Malfoy, visiting the bank this afternoon, are we? I’m afraid we’re just going to have to do six separate security checks and get a signed order from the Supreme Mugwump, because you haven’t kissed Harry _fucking_ Potter’s arse enough times today.” It’s unbelievable! And the whole time all they’re doing behind closed doors is eroding our traditions and our culture. Passing legislation to get workers compensation and wages for fucking house-elfs. Equal rights for werewolves! Equal rights for centaurs! Equal rights for giants! Equal rights for any kind of half-breed, and meanwhile, if any of us say a word against it, well, we’re just pureblood idealists and a sign of the outdated toxic culture that they’re trying to destroy, not the families who have _preserved our society for hundreds of fucking years.’_

Draco cuts himself off, breathing heavily.

Nico stares at him. ‘Oof.’

‘What?’

‘That's a lot to unpack. Gosh. Okay—’ Nico runs his hands through his hair, staring at Draco. ‘Something is beginning to occur to me,’ he says.

‘Yes?’

‘You might be, uh, not a good person?’

It feels like someone has caught his sinking stomach and squeezed it, digging in sharp like claws. Draco sits up straighter, offended. ‘What do you know about any of this?’ he asks, the volume of his voice rising. ‘Nothing! You don't know anything about wizarding society, you've never even—’

‘I know that you— _you, Draco_ —don't deserve not to have _rights_ just because you're a werewolf.’

‘Werewolves are a danger to society,’ Draco snaps. ‘The one who did this to me—it wasn't just once a month, Nico. He was a monster all the time. You can never trust a werewolf. Even seemingly harmless ones like Remus Lupin, one missed dose of wolfsbane and he was loose in the grounds of _a school with children,_ a mindless, savage beast.’

‘So, _what?’_ Nico’s voice is also getting louder now. ‘You should all be rounded up?’

‘Stop lumping me in with them!’

‘Why, because you're _special?_ Why do you get to choose who's an exception? According to you, I'm the only muggle deserving of not having their mind violated, and you're the only werewolf deserving of living a normal life!’

‘I didn't say I deserved anything!’ Draco shouts.

But Nico doesn't back down. ‘Because you're a war criminal? Is that what you were telling me? Because that's a lot like what it sounded like.’

‘Fine, yes. Yes, I made the wrong choices during a war that you know _nothing about.’_

‘You're right.’ Nico turns on his heel, heading straight back down the hall and into the bedroom. ‘I don't know what the fuck I've gotten myself into,’ he calls over his shoulder. He only vanishes for a moment. When he comes back up the hall, however, he's got his jeans on and is pulling on his shirt over his head and carrying his jacket.

‘Where are you going?’ Draco asks.

‘I'm done,’ Nico says. ‘I'm going home.’

‘You're being ridiculous.’

‘No, I'm not. I'm disengaging from this conversation because I can tell neither of us have the appropriate frames of reference to understand the other's perspective.’

‘Oh, Merlin.’

Nico puts his jacket on and looks around for his boots. ‘Hey, so, maybe don't text or call me for a bit,’ he says.

Draco starts, jumping to his feet. ‘Wait. Are you breaking up with me?’

‘No,’ Nico says, dropping down to lace up his shoes and looking down. ‘It’s not like we’re together. There's nothing to break. I just think we both need to cool off a bit, alright? Alright.’

‘Not _together?’_ Draco can feel his skin going cold. ‘We're something, Nico. You can't say we're not—’

‘I don't want to talk about this,’ Nico says. ‘Not right now, while we're both upset.’

‘I'm not upset,’ Draco insists, but his voice cracks as he says it. ‘You're the one who's upset.’

Nico crosses the room to leave. ‘Okay,’ he says, and then he's opening the door. Draco nearly goes for his wand, nearly spells the door shut again to keep Nico inside, keep Nico here. But he doesn't, and then Nico is gone, and for the second time today Draco wants to stamp and scream.

He throws himself down onto the couch on his back, pressing his hands to his face, and lets out a muffled shout that only Melissa hears.


	9. Chapter 9

‘Sounds like tabloid nonsense,’ Draco drawls, glancing at his father. They are next to the fire in his study, sharing a bottle of brandy as the sun sets outside the high manor windows. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘From Prestley,’ Lucius replies. ‘But it came to him from a hitwizard who works in the next Department, apparently. A young man, new to the team.’

Draco snorts. ‘And you’re taking it seriously?’

‘Not at all. I told him it was absolutely ridiculous. I did think you would want to know what they’re saying, so that we can nip this in the bud.’

Flames lick the charred logs in the fireplace, sparks dancing like fireflies as Draco watches, expression tense in a frown. ‘No one would believe it,’ he says. ‘That I… What was it? Had a half naked muggle in my flat, did you say? Absurd.’

‘I do trust there’s no truth to it,’ Lucius prompts.

‘Of course not.’ Draco takes a long sip of his brandy and swirls the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. It has been nearly a full week since Nico walked out of his home, and he hasn’t heard from him since. It’s funny, but Draco didn’t realise that he was talking to Nico every day—texting for hours late into the night or calling him after work—until it was suddenly just silence.

‘Good,’ Lucius says. ‘That’s good.’

He wouldn’t say he misses Nico. For the last few days he has been too angry to miss him. Fuming that he would walk out on him and ignore him like this over _nothing._ He is probably waiting for Draco to cave and call him first. Well, he’s not going to.

‘Honestly, father,’ he says. ‘I know you think that a few years living in London is going to turn me into some kind of muggle-loving pseudo-Weasley, but I do wish you would trust me on this. If anything, I’ve only learnt that muggles are even more infuriating than I thought.’

Maybe he _should_ text Nico. He did only say not to contact him for a bit. How long is a _bit_ anyway? Draco would say less than six days, surely.

‘I do trust your judgement, Draco. For the most part.’

What would he say to Nico? Would he be expected to apologise? What for? He hasn’t done anything wrong.

‘Hm,’ he says.

‘You seem distracted,’ observes his father.

Draco rubs his eye with the palm of his hand. ‘Just tired,’ he replies, which is true. It’s four days until the full moon and it is beginning to creep on him like darkening clouds.

‘You can’t let this sort of thing go spreading around unchecked.’

‘What am I meant to do? Acknowledging it would only bring more attention to whatever this hitwizard is spreading around.’

Lucius pauses. ‘Have you considered marriage, recently? Rumours like this only spring up because you’re living out on your own, and not linked to any respectable pureblood women.’

Groaning into his brandy, Draco says, ‘There aren’t any of those.’ It is easier than addressing any of the actual root problems with this line of thought.

‘Have you been looking?’

Draco groans again. ‘No.’

‘You are young,’ his father says. ‘You don’t need to rush into marriage. It’s better to establish yourself.’

‘Exactly,’ says Draco.

‘But you’re not _that_ young. It’s probably time to start thinking about it. Your mother and I can help if you’re concerned about not finding anyone suitable.’

That is not the concern. The concern is that Draco is not suitable for anyone else. He could never be, never will be. ‘No, thank you,’ he replies. ‘Just let me… I’ll deal with this. It’ll be fine.’

‘Of course,’ Lucius says—but he sounds a touch sceptical.

Draco’s phone is in his cloak and turned onto silent. He has to keep fighting with himself not to sneak away and check it, like he has been for the past several days, nearly constantly.

 

*

 

‘Melissa,’ Draco whines, lying on the lush rug in his living room and staring up at the ceiling. ‘Why hasn’t he called me? He’s being completely ridiculous, isn’t he?’

Melissa says nothing, because of course she doesn’t. Draco turns his head to look at her, perched on the edge of the coffee table. She put herself there, some time after Draco lay down on the floor because sitting in the chair didn’t seem quite self-pitying or dramatic enough. He never saw her move, but looked away for a moment and looked back and suddenly she was there.  

He suspects she is commiserating with him, in her own way.

‘When you were alive,’ he asks, ‘did you ever have a boy—or a girl—do this to you? He said we weren’t together. He’s wrong, obviously. And I’m not even the one who ought to _care_ about this. And I don’t. I don’t care. But it’s not like we were _nothing,_ Melissa. He doesn’t get to just say it wasn’t anything and then walk out without another word. He doesn’t get to _do that._ Not to me.’

He stares at Melissa for a long moment and her hair ruffles in the breeze from the open window.

‘Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him,’ Draco moans. ‘Did I tell you, the last time I was over there, Em told me that she hasn’t seen Nico bring anyone else home in _ages._ Apparently that’s unusual. She _said_ to me, she _said_ that he must really like me.’ (Admittedly, she also noted that none of the others in the house understood it all, but that she was of the opinion that Draco was at least preferable to most of the guys Nico tends to sleep with, _“Not that that’s saying much.”_ ) ‘He’s a muggle, he doesn’t get to just vanish on me. Well, he can’t. I can go to the café whenever I want to. I can make him see me, if I want to.’ He pauses. ‘What do you think?’

Melissa continues her porcelain silence and Draco sighs.

‘You’re a good listener, at least.’ He pushes himself up onto his elbows to regard her. ‘I suppose we might try the Ouija board.’

Saying it twists a knife in Draco’s stomach a little bit because the dumb thing reminds him of dumb Nico. But he is not going to let that stop him from doing anything, so he gets to his feet and pulls the board out from where it stored in the hall cupboard. He looks down at the box. It is clean and shiny with a plastic sheen and a picture of what looks like a stone statue with its face hidden positioned behind the title of the game.

‘This is so stupid,’ Draco mutters as he opens the box, wandering back to the living area. ‘Fancy a chat, Melissa? I’m well aware that this is just a dumb muggle board game, but you know. Try to approach it with an open mind. Both you and me.’

He unpacks the wooden board, places it on the floor next to the coffee table and sits down next to it. There is a plastic planchette in the box also, with a small glass window, and Draco laughs under his breath as he sets it in the centre of the board, just under the cleanly cut alphabet.

‘I mean,’ he tells Melissa, ‘I’m thinking of this as an assisted communication device.’ Then to himself he mutters, ‘If you’re just a kindly spirit, anyway.’

Crossing his legs, Draco says, ‘I’m not touching the thingie, that seems ridiculous. You can move it on your own, alright?’

The planchette shivers slightly and then, quick as a flash, darts across the board to the upper left hand corner.

_YES_

Draco jumps in his skin. The planchette shudders again and then, slower, returns to the neutral section at the centre of the board. Staring at it wide-eyed, Draco consciously exhales, trying to calm the sudden goosebumps on his skin and the thudding in his chest. ‘Okay,’ he says, voice a little higher than usual. ‘That was a rhetorical question, but okay. This works, I suppose.’

He looks at Melissa. She has not moved an inch. She is sitting there on the edge of the table, cheeks painted pink, hands small and dainty and the little bow on the front of her dress pinned at a slight angle, as usual.

‘Melissa?’ he asks, just to check.

The planchette darts, once again, to _YES_ and then returns to the middle of the board.

Draco wets his lips. ‘I didn’t expect this to, uh,’ he confesses. ‘Let’s see…’ He casts around, trying to decide what to ask her first. He didn’t plan this part. It is probably rude to actually ask her why she thinks Nico is ignoring him. He recalls Nico’s suggestion that she might be a child and finally settles on asking her, ‘How old are you?’

There is a slight pause before the planchette moves this time, as though Melissa is thinking. Finally and somewhat hesitantly, it drifts lower on the board and settles on a pair of numbers.

_23_

‘Phew.’ Draco cocks his head. ‘Wait a moment, is that how old you were when you died, or how old you are _now,_ so to speak?’

The planchette hesitates again and Draco glances between it and Melissa for a long moment, before it moves up to the right corner of the board and just settles on _NO._

Draco sighs. ‘When were you born, then?’

That, Melissa has no trouble answering.

_1928_

‘Alright, so you were twenty-three when you died then, I guess.’

Although he hasn’t asked a question, the planchette shivers and moves across the board. Draco follows it with his eyes, reading.

_AM I DEAD_

He is not sure how to respond to her question. ‘Are you a ghost?’ he asks.

_I DONT KNOW_

‘That’s a bummer.’

The planchette moves back to YES and then to the middle of the board once more.

Draco props his chin on his hand and cocks his head. ‘Why do you think Nico is ignoring me?’

There are two notable things about Melissa’s reply this time. First, the palpable sense of incredulity in her tone as she responds:

_ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW_

But second, that something odd is happening to the board. Draco’s eyes are busy following along with the letters, tracking the arduous method of spelling out the words. But as he watches, he slowly realises something. A few minutes ago, the board had been crisp and clean and gleaming new, untouched. But now, after only ten minutes or so out of the box, it seem… older. Worn and used as though decades have passed. The surface is scuffed and, right before his eyes, Draco can see cracks forming in the wood.

‘Are you doing this?’

Even as Draco watches the planchette shudder and move, he notices that it, too, is beginning to look dusty and old.

_NOT ON PURPOSE_

‘I ask this without any judgement,’ Draco says, ‘but are you evil?’

_I DONT KNOW_

‘Yeah, I get that.’ The cracks in the board seem to be steadily deepening and the numbers and letters are fading as though worn away by years of use. ‘Guess we don’t get a long chat. You’re a witch, right?’

_YES_

‘Pureblood?’

_NO_

Some of the letters on the board are becoming barely legible, so Draco asks, ‘I want to know who you were. What was your surname?’

The planchette begins to move again, but it doesn’t make it further than than the letter “L” before things get too much for Draco. The cracks in the board widen more and—to his horror—begin to secrete a dark red liquid which Draco is, again, pretty certain is blood. The glass inside the planchette also begins to fill with dark red, and it’s just a tad over the limit. Draco scrambles for his wand and vanishes the whole board.

He wipes his hands off in disgust as though he had actually touched the blood and checks that none of it made it onto the rug. He looks up at Melissa on the coffee table and moans. ‘Come on now,’ he says, exasperated.

But he picks her up and settles her on the couch next to him, makes sure she looks comfortable before he starts poking her lightly with his wand. There is still nothing distinctly magical to detect. He narrows his eyes.

‘Be glad you didn’t get blood on my carpet,’ he mutters and pulls out his phone, checking again for a message from Nico.

Still nothing.

 

*

 

Draco wakes up on the morning of the upcoming full moon feeling like absolute shit and tells himself, in no uncertain terms, that he is done being stupid about Nico. He is going to go to the café in the morning, as usual, and he is going to see him, and if Nico doesn’t like that, well that is his problem—not Draco’s.

He drags himself out of bed and his whole body feels achy and sore all over, like he is coming down with a flu. He takes his last dose of wolfsbane for the month.

Because he’s not being stupid about Nico today, he is only going to check his phone exactly _once_ and then turn it off. And he’s going to spend the rest of the day in bed.

This is his plan and he’s committed to sticking to it—until he checks his phone and finds one new message waiting for him. His heart jumps.

It is obviously from Nico, because Nico is the only person who has his number.

The message says: _‘hey how are u feeling? I know 2day sucks usually.’_

Draco purses his lips. What’s he meant to do with this? Is he meant to take this as a cue that Nico isn’t angry at him any-more? Is he meant to assume Nico was never angry at him and he’s been imagining it the whole time? Draco huffs, and texts back. His only comfort, he thinks, is that he significantly overslept this morning and Nico sent this message hours ago, so at least he has kept him waiting on a response.

_‘I feel half dead. Can I assume I’m allowed to talk to you now?’_

It doesn’t take Nico long to reply—which is unusual, because Draco is pretty sure he’s at work. However, that mystery answers itself quickly, because the text Draco receives reads:

_‘ys im lking frowd 2’_

This nonsense is thankfully followed by a second text—while Draco is still trying to decipher the first one—which is significantly more legible and says, _‘oops sorry Im texting under the counter at work without looking at the screen and got interrupted w that one’._

Draco rolls his eyes, but feels himself smile.

 _'Don't get yourself fired,'_ he texts back, picking up his cup of tea off the bench and wandering back into his bedroom, eyes fixed on his phone as he types. _'I need your coffee in the morning.'_

 _'noted,'_ Nico replies. _'how's ur week been?'_

Draco does spend the whole day in bed, but he does not turn off his phone. Instead, he spends the majority of the afternoon curled up under his thick blankets, texting Nico. He dozes on and off for a while, bathed in the late-afternoon sun and at some point while he does so, Melissa makes her way into the room to join him, settling down on the bedside table. He lies about his week. He doesn't admit that he spent most of it fuming and sulking about Nico walking out and missing him.

It is strange, because it has never been like this for Draco. He has always felt the sting of rejection like a poison dagger, the acid of it staying even longer than the wound. But this is different. The moment Nico starts talking to him again—even just in short, misspelled texts—for the first time in his life he feels any grudge just melt away like morning frost in the sunlight.

That night, the moon rises and agony rips through him, turns him inside out.

 

*

 

'Wow, you don't look great,' Nico says as Draco stumbles into the café in the morning.

It is a testament to the fact that Draco has spent too many months now putting what little energy he has in the mornings after a full moon into looking passably good to see Nico. Because he feels the same as ever, but has absolutely failed to do anything other than fall out of bed this morning and pull on a ratty hoodie and soft trousers that are barely not pyjama pants.

'You look gorgeous, as usual,' Draco mutters irritably, stepping up to the counter. Nico glances over his shoulder, checking his manager isn't around, and then leans over the short distance between them to press a quick, cheerful kiss to Draco's dry lips.

From the kitchen, someone wolf-whistles.

It is a first and it is slightly awkward. The kiss is over before Draco has really realised it was happening and Nico is standing behind the counter again, not quite meeting Draco's eyes and punching things into the register.

'Hi,' Draco says, looking in confusion at the counter between them. It feels wrong that Nico was able to cross it at all, like there is meant to be some sort of invisible barrier between them. 'That's… new.'

'Shut up,' Nico laughs. 'Unless you're objecting.'

'No, no—it’s…’ He trails off. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’

‘Well, I’m a human being, not just a mechanical dispenser of coffee, so yeah. If anyone doesn’t like it, they can take it up with me.’

Draco glances around at the other customers, who don’t seem to be paying them any attention, except for the person waiting directly behind him, who is starting to make slightly impatient noises in the back of their throat.

‘I know you’re a human being,’ Draco says, holding out some notes, which Nico takes, grinning. He bumps the register open with a loud _ding_.

‘You need to sit down,’ he replies. ‘You look paler than usual. There are forms I have to fill in if you faint in here and we have to call an ambulance.’

‘If I faint, you’re not to call an ambulance,’ Draco warns firmly, but heads over to his table and sits. He folds his arms on top of the table and rests his head on them, closing his eyes. When Nico wanders over to give him his coffees, he ruffles his hair gently.

‘Hanging in?’

‘Mmhmm,’ Draco hums, leaning into the touch.

Nico isn’t gone again for long. He does not return with Draco’s food: instead, he returns only a couple of minutes after dropping off the coffees and pulls out the other chair at the table next to Draco. He sits down.

Draco, who is now sipping at one of his drinks instead of napping, looks at him sidelong.

‘I’m on my break,’ Nico informs him.

‘I can see that,’ he replies. ‘I guess I ought to be grateful for this attention, since it goes above and beyond what is required of you. We’re not dating, after all, by your measure.’

Nico scratches his chest, just at the top of the deep plunge of his t-shirt. He doesn't meet Draco's eyes. ‘Tell me about last night?’ he says, as though Draco said nothing.

‘It was perfectly normal. Painful and exhausting and rather dull.’ Draco wraps his hands around his mug to warm his fingers. He feels confused by Nico. If his anger melted under attention yesterday, today he just feels off balance. Nothing feels like it is sitting or connecting right. ‘I don't understand,’ he says, exhaustion prompting honesty. ‘What do you want? You're just suddenly fine, after being angry with me all week?’

‘I don't want anything.’ Nico shrugs. ‘I wasn't angry. I needed some time.’

‘You don't want _anything?’_

Nico winces and looks out the window. ‘Can we not talk about this? I just want to hang out for a bit. Thought you wouldn't want to talk either, given you look like death warmed up.’

Draco drains his first coffee. ‘Fine.’

‘That stuff you drink before the full moon,’ Nico starts, changing the subject. ‘You say that lets you keep on being you when you go all werewolf?’

Draco closes his eyes. ‘Yeah.’

‘Does that mean you're safe around humans?’

‘If I want to be.’

‘So if—’

‘I see where you're going with this,’ Draco groans.

‘And?’

‘No. I know you'd wet your pants if you got to see a werewolf in person, but it's not—I'm not…’ He rubs his hand over his face. ‘It's shameful. And painful. I prefer to keep it hidden.’

‘Why is it shameful?’

‘Because it's a metaphor for AIDS, Nicolas.’

Nico splutters and then covers his mouth to muffle a snort. ‘Don’t joke about that. I meant in media and stuff, and you know it. Also, I said it stood in for a lot of sexually transmitted diseases, not just AIDS. And sometimes it’s menstruation, or puberty. Werewolves can be a metaphor for a lot of things.’

‘It’s my life! It’s not a metaphor for anything!’

‘I wasn’t talking about _you,_ we went over this weeks ago.’

‘Well, you should understand why I might be a little sensitive about it, if you are so well versed in the, what did you say before? “Negative queer-coding of lycanthropy”?’

‘It's true, though,’ Nico says, spreading his arm over the back of Draco's chair. ‘It's a thing, the queer-coding of monsters. You see it with vampires and stuff too. Anything which defies social convention and represents subversive sexuality.’

Draco shakes his head, and everything spins slightly. He leans back in his seat and lets Nico rub soft, soothing circles into the back of his neck. ‘We do it too, you know,’ he says. ‘With muggles in fiction.’

‘Hm?’

‘Muggles tend to be portrayed one of two ways in wizarding stories. Either you’re all bumbling and stupid and a complete joke, or you're dangerous and aggressive. That one goes along with pushing past wizarding boundaries, invading our space and our bodily autonomy.’

‘And we're all queer?’

‘Mm, it’s there in subtext. The stereotypes are different...’ Draco trails off as his food is dropped off by one of the kitchen staff.

‘Thanks, Col,’ Nico says for him, reaching out to steal a tomato from Draco's plate. Draco slaps his hand away sharply. He isn't a fan of sharing food generally, but after a full moon it is unconscionable.

‘Your boyfriend is tiny,’ Col tells Nico. ‘He's never going to eat all that.’

Draco feels Nico’s hand freeze where it is stroking the nape of his neck. Slowly he retracts it and Draco lets out a soft, annoyed breath. Nico doesn’t say anything though, except for, ‘Yeah? Just watch.’ Then, when Col walks away: ‘So, did you think we were all like that, then?’

‘Well, _you’re_ gay and stupid,’ Draco replies, biting into his sausage. ‘It’s only been reinforced, really.’

‘Ouch, you’re coming for me today.’  

In truth, Draco knows that Nico isn’t stupid. Nico is frustratingly bright, sometimes—whip sharp and inquisitive. But he is thick when it comes to this, because Draco (gulping down his breakfast hungrily, the world just a closed off bubble around him and his plate and Nico), _Draco_ has reached a point where he would give himself to a muggle, whole-heartedly and perhaps not openly or publicly, but still without hesitation. And the muggle won’t do the same for him. And it’s stupid, because Draco is the one who should be critical, who should be picky, who should step back and shy away. But it’s not, and it is troubling beyond belief.

Nico’s break is only a short one. He has to get back to work after Draco has polished off his first plate of breakfast, but before he is far into his second. He stands up, rolling his shoulders, and Draco says, ‘I’m going to be home later, if you want to come by after work.’

Although he seems to hesitate, Nico does nod. ‘Yeah, alright.’

‘I’ll be miserable company,’ Draco warns. ‘I might fall asleep. But I want to be with you.’

Nico gives him finger guns. Draco exhales through his nose, because there is nothing that says “we’re just two friends who fuck” like finger guns.

Draco goes home. He starts his wolfsbane, slowly and carefully, and sets it on the stove to simmer. He then climbs more or less immediately into bed. He casts additional charms on the blankets to ease his aching bones, and sleeps like it is only possible to sleep in the sweet relief from agony and exhaustion. Everything feels soft and enveloping, and his dreams are like sweet, fond touches.

Nico is able to let himself into the building, which means Draco doesn’t even wake up when he arrives. It is a magical building: and so it recognises Nico, knows that Draco wants him here. Once, a while ago, it would not have even let Nico see the front door on the street, but now it welcomes him in, allows him to open the door and let himself inside.

Draco only wakes when he feels fingers stroking through his hair—and they might have been doing it for hours, for all he knows.

‘Mate, I need to talk to you about your building security,’ Nico tells him. ‘There's not even a buzzer outside, you know that? And you just leave your door unlocked.’

Draco blinks sleepily and chuckles into the pillow. ‘It's fine.’ He yawns. ‘The elevator wouldn't have brought you up if it didn't know you were welcome.’

‘That's, uh… Where would it have taken me?’

Sitting up, Draco shrugs. ‘You know, actually a really good question.’

Nico drops his hand from Draco's hair and turns, instead, to unlace and kick off his shoes.

‘Getting into bed,’ Draco asks. ‘Are you after something?’

‘Course,’ Nico says. He straightens, kicking off his shoes as he turns to pull Draco closer to him and catch his lips in a deep kiss. ‘Unless you're too tired.’

‘I want to talk, first.’

Nico pales slightly, pulling back. He pulls a face. ‘Talk?’

‘About this. You and me.’

Nico makes a whining sound a bit like a car stalling. ‘About you and me,’ he repeats, as though considering it. ‘You and I…’

‘Stop stalling.’

‘What's there to talk about? I like how it is. Don't you?’

‘Yes. A lot. That's my point.’

‘Ugh.’ Nico groans. He flops back on the bed into his back, and Draco bounces as the mattress dips. ‘Do you have any booze?’

‘There are bottles of wine in the cabinet.’

‘How about that, then?’ Nico asks. ‘It's almost time for dinner, I'll cook something, alright? And we can have few drinks.’

Draco doesn't understand how Nico can talk for literal hours about chupacabras, but it is like pulling teeth to get him to say a word one way or another as to how he feels about any of this.

But he agrees to the suggestion. For all his talents making coffee, Nico isn't the best cook in the world. Most of his cooking involves putting a boiled egg in some packet ramen, or making a variety of gourmet chip butties—and gourmet in this usage simply means “with fish fingers, hot sauce, and/or sliced cheese”.

He is slightly better in Draco's kitchen than his own, though. Perhaps because Draco's kitchen isn't a square inch of free bench space and a living room crammed into an area about half the size of it. So he makes beans and rice and a potato salad, and it's passably average.

Draco watches him drink most of a bottle of wine as he cooks. Draco himself sips from a glass as he reclines on the chair, but the rest of the bottle stays in the kitchen with Nico, who fills up his own glass continuously. He chats as he cooks, but only about the most innocuous things, like Em’s boyfriend Reese and his new Dungeons and Dragons campaign, or the hiking trip he has coming up with his cryptid tracking forum friends, the football league he plays in, or whether he ought to be offended about something that his sister's husband said about him at a family lunch.

‘I'm not asking for a lot,’ Draco says when they sit down to eat. ‘I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.’

‘And you never have been in your life, I’m sure,’ Nico mutters into his wine glass.

‘Au contraire, I’m frequently unreasonable.’ Draco spears a potato. ‘But we had one small argument, and you didn’t talk to me for over a week. And decided, quite on your own, that whatever we have—which, may I emphasise, consists of very frequent, very good sex, what I consider to be quite stimulating conversation, and, not be undersold, borderline cohabitation with the amount of time you spend here—but you’ve decided that all this barely counts as more than friendship.’

‘What’s wrong with friendship? Friends are great.’

Draco glares at him. ‘No, friends are disposable.’

‘Well, I’d disagree with that.’ Nico shrugs and splashes some wine out of the glass he is holding. ‘You know what’s disposable? Relationships. You rush into them and try to build your life around one person, and you sacrifice things, and they sacrifice things, and you resent each other, and then the moment that one of you starts feeling bored or dissatisfied—because of course you do, that’s human nature—then it’s just suddenly over, and you can’t ever speak to them again because it would hurt too much, or something. So you just have to let them disappear from your life forever. That doesn’t happen with friends. With friends, if you get sick of someone, you can just hang out with someone else for a while. And you’ll stop being sick of them after you’ve had a bit of a breather, and you can just pick things up again and it’s perfectly fine and everyone is happy.’

‘You consider this rushing?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Nico, we’ve been sleeping together for nearly six months. We have known each other for years.’

‘Still, it’s too fast for me.’ He looks down at his food, expression pained. ‘Draco,’ he groans. ‘Don’t push me into anything.’

‘Don’t waste my time,’ Draco counters. ‘Respect the fact I’m giving more of myself to you than I’ve ever given to anyone.’ Nico looks stricken at this and Draco rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not saying anything needs to change. I’m not _asking_ for anything to change. I’m not asking you to promise anything, and I’m not even asking for exclusivity—although I would like it to be on the table eventually, preferably. I just want you to acknowledge that this is something. I’d like to be able to call you my boyfriend. I’d like you to stop looking so scared when I say that.’

‘Do I look scared?’

‘You look terrified,’ Draco tells him.

‘I thought I was playing it cool.’

Burying his face in his hands, Draco laughs. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘Can you get drunk too, please? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you were also drunk.’

Draco reaches for his wand to summon another bottle of wine, but pauses. His hand is still shaking slightly. He feels better for sleeping today, and for resting while Nico cooked dinner. But he still feels drained from last night. ‘Get another bottle out?’ he asks Nico, who immediately gets to his feet.

He fetches a bottle of red from the cabinet on the far wall, checking the label as if he knows what he is looking at. When he brings it back over, he fills up Draco’s glass first, all the way to the rim.

‘Okay, just… let me think,’ Nico says, leaning down and pressing his lips to the crown of Draco’s head as he does so. ‘Alright? Put a pause on this conversation for now?’

‘Yes, fine.’ Draco drains half his glass in one mouthful. ‘We’ve talked now. You got through it alive. Well done. Congratulations.’

Lethargy still aches in Draco’s bones, and then with alcohol added to the mix it is not long until he feels loose and sleepy and more than a little bit clingy. They are on the couch and Nico is flicking through one of Draco’s books on Egyptian alchemical transmutation. Draco is curled up against him, head resting on his broad shoulder, eyes closed, and hand exploring up under the hem of his shirt without much direction.

‘Do you understand any of that?’ Draco asks, hearing his own voice coming out as a low, monotone hum.

The pages of the book rustle as Nico thumbs through them. ‘I mean, don’t ask me to do any of it,’ he replies. ‘But it’s interesting.’

‘It is. You’re missing, well, apart from being a muggle, you’ve got to have a basis in transfiguration and potion making before most of that will click into place. You can read something a bit easier if you like.’

‘Eh, it all seems to be chemistry, kinda. I did a minor in it. It’s not so bad, I think I’m following.’

Draco pats Nico’s stomach under his shirt reassuringly and yawns. It’s nothing like chemistry, not really. Well. Is it? It’s not like Draco has ever studied muggle sciences.

‘Is chemistry the one with the rocks?’ he asks, hand covering his mouth to stifle his yawn.

‘That’s geology, sweetie.’ Nico bumps his shoulder lightly. ‘You should go to bed. You’re about to drool on me.’

‘Mm, that’s because you taste so good,’ Draco mumbles. He would like to kiss Nico as he says it, but he can’t quite bring himself to move. ‘I’m not tired.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘No, I’m a bit tipsy and my body is exhausted but my brain is still working,’ Draco insists. ‘If I got into bed I’d just be lying awake thinking.’

He hears Nico turn a couple more pages. ‘Alright then.’

‘You could fuck me to sleep,’ Draco murmurs, slipping his hand further up Nico’s shirt.

He’s not sure, but he thinks he senses Nico stop reading. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Mm-hmm, if you feel like it.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’d be doing all the work,’ Draco says pointedly. ‘I don’t feel like moving much. And I mean fucking me properly, understand? I know we haven’t exactly done that yet—’

‘Well, it’s been hard to get you properly naked, and that’s conducive.’

‘—Yes and now you know why that is. So, what do you think? Take it slowly though, I don’t want you getting overly excited and going in guns blazing.’

Draco blinks his eyes open as he feels Nico sit up and close the book, putting it on the arm of the chair. He doesn’t reply in words, just twists around to kiss Draco and pull him into his lap. It is easy and natural for Nico to stand up, pulling Draco with him so that his legs wrap around his waist and he can walk them to the bedroom.

Draco hums happily against his lips. ‘You’re so strong.’

‘And I’m going to shag you so stupid,’ Nico replies, dropping Draco down onto the rumpled sheets of the bed. ‘I’ve wanted to. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but I will admit that I took about one look at you and thought to myself, “there’s a bottom”.’

‘This is stereotyping,’ Draco objects, shuffling up the bed so that he can rest his head on the soft pillows. ‘You’re not remotely wrong, but that’s still rude. Twink profiling.’

‘You just have an aura about you.’

‘An auror? I didn’t take you for being into authority.’

‘What?’

‘What? Mm, come here.’ Draco flaps his hands in a lazy gesture intended to communicate _get on the bed._ ‘Undress me.’

Nico crawls toward him, smiling. ‘Oh, we’re _really_ not doing any work, are we?’ He does not argue, however. He simply gets Draco out of his numerous layers of warm, flowing fabric with some practiced skill—hindered, naturally, by the fact that Draco only reluctantly moves his arms and lifts his hips in assistance.

When Draco is naked, Nico lightly touches the scars on his inner thighs again, fingers lingering on the deepest ones. He caresses them only for a brief moment, before crawling forward to gently brush their lips together. Draco’s heart still thuds in his chest at being exposed like this. Sometimes he can still hear Greyback’s voice, as though he is still whispering in his ear:

_No one else will be able to touch you without knowing you are mine._

As though he can hear the direction Draco’s thoughts are going, Nico pulls back, looks him in the eyes, and says, ‘They don’t define you, you know.’

‘I’m well aware,’ Draco says—and it comes out snider than he means it, so he arches up to plant a short kiss on Nico’s lips. ‘Thank you,’ he adds. ‘It is good to hear it.’

Nico pulls his shirt over his head by the collar and throws it in the direction of the chair next to the bed, then drops his hands to his belt. ‘You don’t have to move,’ he says. ‘Just point me in directions of lube and condoms and stuff.’

‘Left drawer,’ Draco answers. ‘I bought some, even. Are you proud of me?’

Nico rolls towards the side table, kicking out of his pants. He reaches into the drawer, feeling around. ‘So proud. I’ll show you how appreciative I am.’ Pulling out a condom packet and a small bottle of lube, he hesitates. ‘Is this um, wizard lube?’

‘It came from a wizard shop, yes,’ Draco answers. The bottle is stoppered, golden and filled with shimmering liquid. Nico is eyeing it with suspicion, turning it over in his hands.

‘What does it do?’

Draco stares at him. ‘What do you think it does? It’s lube.’

‘Magic lube?’

‘I…’ Draco pauses. ‘It’s lube. What’s the problem?’

‘Not a problem, I’m just trying to get an idea of what it is. It’s going in your body and on my dick, after all. Is it water-based?’

‘What does it say on the label?’

‘Um.’ Nico peers at the bottle. ‘It just says, _Aguamentease: Glide._ I guess… I guess that sounds like it's water-based.’

‘Good?’

‘Sure…’ Nico sounds sceptical. He throws the bottle down onto the bed. ‘And are these magic condoms?’

Draco smirks. ‘Not to my knowledge.’ He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head back and melting into the bed. He lets his eyes flutter closed again. ‘Get on with it.’

The bed dips as Nico shifts. Draco feels one knee bump between his legs, and can sense Nico kneeling over him. Draco slides one hand down his own body, just trailing down his stomach, and shifts his legs apart slightly, welcoming. His prick is soft, but he can feel anticipatory interest stirring inside him and he’s quite happy for Nico to work them up to it as long as he can just lay here and feel. Wine turns him warm all over, dozy and unabashed.

Nico brushes a strand of hair off Draco’s cheek, tucking it behind his ear. The gentle touch tingles on Draco’s skin, causing him to sigh.

‘Don’t fall asleep,’ Nico says. ‘Hey.’

‘I’m with you,’ Draco replies, wetting his lips. ‘I just have my eyes closed.’

Fingers trail down his jaw and neck, stroking across his chest and then, suddenly, plucking at one of Draco’s nipples—sharp.

Draco’s hips jerk, and he sucks in a breath of surprise through his teeth, almost like a hiss of pain. _‘Oh.’_

Nico rolls his thumb soothingly over the nipple he just pinched. ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’

A shake of the head. ‘No—not really. Just… I think I’m a bit over-sensitive from last night.’

Then Nico says, ‘Aw, no,’ in a voice that Draco really does not trust. His thumb rubs a few more soft, dry circles around Draco’s nipple and then—out of nowhere, he pinches the other nipple with his other hand, causing Draco to spasm on the bed. Immediately, Nico bends down, soothing, flicking his tongue across it and kissing gently.

_‘Fuuck.’_

‘Wow, you are sensitive,’ Nico observes in a low voice which vibrates into Draco’s skin, his mouth still pressed to his skin. He turns his head, kissing Draco’s chest so that his curly hair brushes where his mouth just abandoned, and a shiver of pleasure tremors through Draco’s body.

‘Touch me,’ Draco murmurs—and Nico’s hand slides across his chest, flicking his finger against his nipple again. He does it quickly, short ticklish movements that have Draco squirming on the bed almost immediately. ‘Not _there_ ,’ Draco gasps. ‘Fuck, _yes_. Touch me properly.’

Nico doesn’t. He doesn’t reply, either—just keeps moving his hand across Draco’s chest, almost bruised from sensitivity, teasing and playing. He occasionally uses both hands, plucking or flicking sharply and then gently comforting with soft, merciful caresses.

Moaning, Draco writhes against his sheets until he can feel his dick harden, curved up against his belly, twitching with pleasure with almost every touch. He opens his eyes. The moment he does, he can see Nico looking at him, grinning, tongue between his teeth.

 _‘There_ he is.’

‘Th—That's enough, Nico, it’s too much.’

Nico keeps rolling his forefinger over one of Draco’s nipples in slow, firm movements. ‘I dunno, you look like you’re enjoying it.’

As if to prove the point, he lightly flicks the nipple again and Draco’s hips jerk against the air.

Draco lets out a low noise. ‘Please, it’s good—but I can’t—’ He looks imploringly at Nico, trying to beg him with his eyes.

Nico takes pity and stops. He slides his hand down Draco’s side instead to settle on his hip, rubbing circles with his thumb on the sharp jut of Draco’s hipbone. ‘You’re definitely awake now,’ he says. ‘And you’re fucking hot like this, hey.’ He reaches for the lube nearby, feeling through the folds of the quilt. ‘I’m going to get this going, if that’s cool?’

Draco, still catching his breath, parts his legs further and tilts his hips up, encouraging. _‘Slowly,’_ he reminds him. ‘I’ve never had someone else do this to me.’

There is a short moment where Nico seems to freeze in surprise, then he licks his lips, nods, and blinks. ‘I guess that’s—well, you just gotta talk to me. We’ll go as slow as you need and use the whole bottle of lube if we have to.’

‘You can relax. As you’re well aware, I’m hardly a virgin. Just…’

‘A bum virgin.’

‘...In this one particular facet, yeah.’ Draco chuckles. ‘A bum virgin.’

‘The whole concept of virginity is flawed,’ Nico starts, pulling out the stopper in the bottle of lube. ‘It’s just like, things we assign arbitrary significance to, right? Like, we do it with everything in sex and it’s stupid. I know we were joking before but like, twinks aren’t real. Bottoming isn’t real. This power-dynamic related to a socially constructed model of giving and receiving isn’t real.’ He pours lube out of the bottle, rubbing it between his fingers and inspecting the glossy sheen. ‘You know what _is_ real?’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘What?’

‘I’m putting my finger in your arse,’ he says, and does just that.

Draco’s immediate reaction of laughter fades quickly into a soft sound, not quite pleasure or discomfort. Nico does take this slowly, carefully, like Draco requested—but still, it’s nothing like when he touches himself. Nico’s hands are bigger and like this he can feel it.

‘That alright?’ Nico stills his finger inside and curls it in a subtle beckoning motion, not going any deeper. Just letting Draco adjust to the feeling. It’s not enough—not deep enough, not enough fingers, not enough dick, not _enough—_ to really feel like much of anything other than an intrusion yet. But Draco knows it will get there.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes again and bending his knees further to give Nico more access. ‘It’s all a social construct anyway.’

He can feel, rather than hear, Nico vibrating with laughter as he takes a moment to shift them around, get his knees under Draco’s thighs to tilt his hips up. He has apparently gotten lube all over his other hand too, because he slides it down Draco’s stomach and it is warm and slippery, like oil.

The movement shifts the angle, nudges Nico’s finger in deeper, and Draco moans. _‘There,’_ he breathes out, trying to squirm into the feeling. It is warmth spreading out across his body, a tingle almost like the sensation of weightlessness when taking that first upward climb on a broom. The feeling shivers out across his thighs, his midsection. He tries to breath evenly, deeply; but Nico curls his finger, grazing that spot with a bit too much pressure, and Draco can’t help the embarrassing sounds falling from his lips.

‘Can I just say,’ says Nico (and Draco turns his face into his own shoulder to suppress a giggle, because Nico’s voice is perfectly light and curious and he always does this), ‘That this is, I reckon, really good lube? Like—’ He pulls his finger out, pushes it in again, tilts his wrist so that he’s got a good angle to fingerbang Draco faster and deeper, now that he’s adjusted and taking it easily enough. Draco tries to stifle the little moans he can’t help but let out with every push, but he’s bad at it. ‘Like, I can do this and it’s so smooth? And not drying out at all, as far as I can tell.’

‘Nnngh,’ Draco replies. ‘Nnf, nngh, yeah that’s _—unnhhh interesting_.’

‘Up for another finger?’

Draco shakes his head, reaches down to grab Nico’s wrist—encourage him to keep doing exactly what he’s doing. ‘Not just—nearly.’ This feels good. This feels amazing. It’s still not enough—but Draco wants to need more before he asks for it. He wants to ache for it.

It doesn’t take long. Not long until he is pushing back into every movement of Nico’s hand, until he can’t think about anything except how much he wants more, fuller, deeper, more. Until it is aching the way it always has when he’s done this to himself; first with silencing charms up around his bed in his dormitory at school, fumbling and self-conscious of being caught, and later, alone in this bed, three fingers inside himself and never able to make it enough. ‘Please,’ he gasps. ‘Nico, give me more.’

‘Still slowly?’

‘Fuck that,’ Draco says, and then corrects himself. ‘Yes. A little. More lube.’

Obligingly, Nico pulls his finger out and pours a drizzle more lube directly onto his fingers pressed to Draco’s hole. The liquid is not cool, but it slips down through his arse in a way that makes him shiver, and he feels himself spasm against Nico’s fingertips as if trying to pull them in.

Draco flutters his eyes open and catches sight of Nico, who is staring at him with dark eyes almost black. There are curls of hair falling into his face and he can’t push them out of the way, because both his hands are absolutely dripping with lube.

Groaning, Draco pushes himself (with effort) to sit up. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching out with shaking hands, and pushes Nico’s thick brown hair back off his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. He holds himself there for a moment, feeling Nico’s fingers still hesitating where they are not quite pushing inside him.

Nico smiles and leans forward to kiss him, just a quick peck of lips. ‘Lie back down,’ he tells him. ‘You’re not meant to be moving, remember?’

Draco huffs and flops onto his back. ‘You had hair in your eyes. What if you couldn’t see me? You might fuck up and put it in the wrong _—ohhhh—’_ He breaks off as Nico pushes both fingers into him. Even with the lube and the patience, there is a slight sting, but it’s nothing. Nothing to how good it feels.

‘Wait, the wrong what?’ Nico asks. Draco doesn’t respond, because he is currently blanking out a little bit on the pillow, spreading his legs even further and trying to get Nico’s fingers deeper inside him, whimpering. ‘The wrong hole? I’d have to—I’d have to fuck up pretty badly, unless… wizards aren’t physiologically different to the rest of us, right? You don’t have an extra—’

‘Nico,’ Draco groans. ‘Not now.’

‘Right, yeah.’ Nico licks his lips and focuses. Draco does glimpse him taking a quick peek down between his legs, and he snorts and kicks his foot against Nico’s shin.

Nico changes the angle of his hand and crooks his fingers so that pleasure shoots up Draco’s spine. ‘Oh.’ He clenches his hands into the bedsheets, pulling in deep, uneven breaths. He can feel his prick leaking precum against his stomach. ‘Fu—That’s enough,’ he gasps. ‘It’s good. Need you in me.’

Shifting on the bed, Nico bends forward (fingers still buried inside Draco’s arse), and pulls him into a sloppy kiss. Draco hums against his mouth, wrapping his arms around Nico’s wide shoulders and hitching his knees up higher so that Nico has space between them.

Slowly, Nico pulls his fingers out. But instead of replacing them with his cock, he pulls back and sits up. ‘Condom,’ he says, and Draco thumps his head back against the pillow and groans in frustration.

‘You couldn’t have put it on earlier?’

‘Just hold onto your horses.’ He glances around, brow furrowed. Draco pushes himself up onto his elbows. ‘... It was right here.’

‘Merlin, for fuck’s _—accio_.’ The condom packet jumps out of the folds of the quilt and into Draco’s open hand. He’s actually somewhat proud of himself for doing wandless magic, even a simple spell, on the day after the full moon. He tears into the plastic with his teeth and sits up, pulling the condom out.

‘Handy,’ Nico comments, grabbing the lube. Draco holds out the condom and lets Nico put a couple of drops into the tip.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he says, reaching for Nico’s dick and stroking a couple of times before sliding the condom on. ‘I want to ride you.’

‘Bit of a turnaround from “I don’t want to move much”, innit?’

‘You’ve energised me.’ Draco bites his lip, nudging Nico to roll over onto his back. He is feeling more awake now: but more than that, he wants control. He wants to be able to take Nico inside him at his own pace, drive this himself. His stomach flips. He isn’t quite sure why he’s feeling slightly nervous, but he’s very concious of the fact that this is somewhat new territory for him, and he desperately wants it to be right. ‘Lie down.’

Besides, riding Nico just seems, in general, like it will be a wonderful idea. He rolls acquiescently onto his back, rubbing the flank of Draco’s thigh as he straddles him. He is very broad, Nico. His thighs are thick and strong, and comfortable to sit on. His stomach is soft, and his chest provides ample space for Draco to brace himself on.

Kneeling, Draco shuffles forward into what feels like a good position and reaches behind him, feeling out Nico’s dick and taking it in hand so that he can guide himself down onto it.

‘Don’t rush,’ Nico says, and opens his mouth as if to say more—but cuts himself off with a slightly strangled sound as Draco starts to sink onto his cock. ‘Oh, fuck.’

Draco closes his eyes, forcing his body to relax, forcing himself not to hurry this. He slides his hands up Nico’s stomach, curling his fingers in his chest hair, and lets his head tip forward as he slowly takes him in. Nico feels amazing, stretching him from the inside. Draco still feels a little bit dizzy, a little bit drunk and tired and broken, and it is just making this seem like _everything._

Nico bites back a breathless noise when Draco rolls his hips, pulling himself up and then sinking down again—deeper. Draco can’t see him, eyes still shut with concentration. But he can feel him. He can feel the way Nico is stroking his hands soothingly over Draco’s hips, helping to guide him in easy movements that get them gradually deeper, gradually faster—until, finally, Nico is fully inside him and it’s perfect. He can feel the way Nico is trying not to thrust up, trying to give Draco time to adjust, but not quite managing it, moving his hips in little motions that send tremors of sensation through Draco’s body. He can feel Nico’s chest rising and falling under his hands, and he can hear him—hear his moans, his breaths, and his low, encouraging words.

From there, it’s easy. He rides him lazily, just steady, indolent rolls of the hips. He finds an angle that has Nico’s cock hitting him just right and guides the movements so that they keep nudging him there.

Then, looking down, he half opens his eyes. Nico clearly didn’t expect him to, because (just for a moment) he catches Nico looking at him in a way he has never seen before. He looks rapt, his lips parted, a flush riding high on his darkly freckled cheeks. The expression in his eyes is soft, fond—but the moment he sees that Draco is looking back at him it cracks instead into a playful grin, the openness in his expression closing into amusement.

‘Alright?’ he asks.

Draco nods and sits back, shifting his posture so that he’s bracing himself on Nico’s thighs instead of his chest. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ he says, breathlessly.

‘That you’re riding my dick pretty hard for someone who claims to be exhausted.’

Draco slaps his leg. ‘No, what you’re really thinking.’

‘You’re beautiful,’ Nico answers.

Letting out a quiet moan, Draco tilts his neck back. ‘Mmm, that’s nice, I like that.’

‘I bet you do.’ Nico slides his hand up Draco’s thigh and wraps his hand loosely around his cock. Draco jerks at the feeling. ‘I’m close, Draco. Are you?’

In honesty, Draco could probably get off just from Nico’s dick—he’s not sure he needs the jerk off as well. ‘Yeah,’ he gasps. ‘I could—I’m just—’ He trails off, losing his chain of thought as Nico fumbles around and pours yet more lube over his dick and starts stroking him, fast and slick. _‘Ah—!’_

‘Yeah, that’s it. Let go.’

Draco’s thighs are trembling. Pleasure tightens inside him, tense and eager. _‘Nico.’_

‘Mm, right here.’

God, Draco thinks as Nico’s dick works his prostate and he can feel himself crashing like a coastal wave towards an orgasm for the history books, but it’s really hard not to say something he shouldn’t, right now. Is it just a natural reaction to having someone’s dick inside your arse to desperately want to tell them you’re in love?

He manages not to, barely. Instead, he just bites down on his tongue and comes almost silently, pleasure pulsing through him. He paints Nico’s stomach in clean stripes of come, and then shakes and hunches over and jerks into Nico’s hand as he keeps stroking him afterwards until Draco is panting and whimpering and he can feel Nico thrusting his hips up, stilling, and coming inside him.

Then, Draco slumps forward onto Nico’s chest and, because he needs to, does his best to taste and kiss every single inch of his neck, jaw, chest and shoulder that he can.

He feels Nico carefully pull himself out, and huffs out a groan as his arse clenches around nothing. ‘Kiss me,’ he says to Nico, while Nico tries to tie off the used condom over his back. Nico sticks his tongue out, rolls over just enough to deposit the condom in the little waste basket next to the bed—the building’s house-elfs can clean that up later—and rolls back to pull Draco into a deep kiss.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, when they break apart. Draco sits up enough to feel around in his discarded clothes for his wand. He casts a couple of quick cleaning charms on the bed and on the two of them, then lies down, thinking.

He pauses for a long moment, assessing himself. He feels fucked out, warm and aching pleasantly all over. He feels comfortable, stretched out on top of his bed next to Nico. He feels… a strange weightlessness inside him that makes him slightly nervous and excited all at once and seems to focus entirely on the muggle beside him.

He says: ‘Well bugger, I feel wide awake now.’

 

*

 

‘I should have told you something yesterday,’ Nico says in the morning. He’s leaning in the doorway between Draco’s bedroom and ensuite, fresh out of the shower, towelling himself down.

Draco rolls over in bed to face him and tries to raise an eyebrow questioningly, but gets a bit distracted and instead just bites his thumbnail, eyeing him up and down. ‘Hm?’

‘I didn’t mention, because I didn’t want you to get grumpy about it.’

This gets Draco’s attention. He narrows his eyes. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Well, it’s…’ Nico bends down, drying off his legs and avoiding meeting Draco’s eyes. ‘So after that conversation we had the other week, I realised that there are some things I don’t understand.’

‘Naturally.’ Draco pushes himself up onto his elbow. ‘You’re just a muggle. You learned magic was real about a month ago. I hardly expect you to understand anything about our world.’

‘Look, yeah. That’s the kind of stuff I mean. I didn’t get what you meant when you said _our world._ I figured it was just like any subculture or community. You have your own spaces, dialect, in groups/out groups, etcetera. But like, it’s still part of the wider society, right? Because I thought like, what's so special? You can do some spells. Pretty cool, but nothing—’

‘Pretty cool,’ Draco repeats. He laughs in disbelief.  

Nico shrugs, turning around to hang the towel up on the hook behind the door. ‘I’m trying to explain why I didn’t get it,’ he says. ‘But I realised when we were talking that it’s not… it’s not like that. That’s what I’m trying to get at. You’re not just blokes who do a bit of magic, you’re basically completely cut off from the rest of us, right? And natch, you hide yourselves away by brainwashing and mind-controlling us, but let's not get into that right now.’

Draco splutters. ‘That’s not—it’s to protect ourselves!’

‘In what world do you need protecting from _us?’_

Draco sits up properly as Nico comes over to the bed and sits down, grabbing his pants off the floor and pulling them on. He clenches his fingers in the bed sheets. He doesn’t want to be bickering like this, but he can’t quite stop himself from shooting back. ‘Right, because muggles are so harmless. Do you think it's a coincidence that we went into hiding at the same time as muggle weaponry was modernising? You vastly outnumber us, and—’

‘This isn’t the point,’ Nico says, cutting across him. ‘The point is that I didn't understand the sociopolitical and historical context that you're talking about. I'm sure I still don't.’

‘Clearly not, you—’

‘So I went and talked to Remus.’

He says it over Draco’s words, and it takes a few seconds for Draco to register what he just said. Then he feels himself tense. ‘You did what?’

‘Well, I worked out that, well, you know. That he was a wizard too. So I emailed him, and he invited me over to his house, and I met his wife, and we had dinner. And we just had a bit of a chat.’

Draco falls back onto his pillows. He rubs his hand over his eyes. ‘And what did you _chat_ about?’

Nico doesn’t immediately answer the question. ‘Side note,’ he says. ‘I was so sure he was gay. But no. Wife. Imagine that.’

Draco snorts. ‘What made you think that?’

‘I dunno, it just seemed thematically appropriate.’

‘I have a feeling he—’ Draco cuts himself off. ‘No, I don’t want to speculate on this. I’ve seen him naked, that was weird enough. He used to be my teacher.’

‘Yeah, he said,’ Nico continues. He leans back on the bed, resting his weight on his hands. Draco looks at him suspiciously. He doesn’t seem quite at ease, but he looks like he’s trying hard to keep the conversation neutral. It makes Draco uncomfortable, like a promise that he’s about to hear something that he really doesn’t want to. ‘He and Tonks both seemed to find it really funny that you’d told me about the whole magic thing.’

‘Fuck,’ Draco breathes. ‘Fuck, Nico. Fuck.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just, of all the people.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with that lot. I don’t want you talking to them. About me. If you had questions, Nico, you could have just asked me.’

‘You wouldn’t have answered them.’

Draco opens his mouth and closes it again. He doesn’t understand where this is going, but he knows it’s bad enough already. He’s sick of Lupin butting into his life, deciding that Draco is his werewolf little brother or whatever it is he thinks. He doesn’t need Nico going and adding fuel to the fire. ‘I tell you things,’ he objects. ‘I tell you more than I should. I’ve never—why would you think I wouldn’t answer any questions you had myself?’

‘No, it’s not that I think you wouldn’t have—I just mean, I think you’re a…’ Nico waves his hands, searching. ‘An unreliable narrator.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, so Remus and Tonks told me a whole bunch about this war you talk about—’

‘Here we go.’

‘And the way they described it sounds, er, a bit different to the way you do. Especially when it comes to your involvement.’

Draco’s stomach sinks and he feels ill. ‘They have no idea,’ he says, voice low. ‘They don’t _know_ what it was like for me. All of them—their lot—they can sit on their high hippogriffs and judge me, and they can tell you whatever they want, because they get to twist the narrative that way. Nico. I don’t—whatever they told you about me, they’ll try to make it sound like I was a monster, but you know me. Don’t judge me because of what they…’

‘They said you came around in the end. They said you helped.’

Well, that’s even worse. ‘I hate them. I hate them all. This is all Potter’s fault.’

‘From what I understand, lots of you all got caught up with these Death Eaters and this, uh, fascist sounding ideology and all this blood-purity nonsense. They explained that stuff to me. It sounds super gross, by the way. And very familiar. But they also told me that at the end of the war you checked out, and you came round to the right side.’

Draco pulls his pillow over his face. ‘That’s a loose interpretation,’ he says, muffled.

‘Well at least, that you went on trial and people spoke on your behalf, said you did some things that—helped? And in the end they cleared your name.’

 _‘Potter,’_ Draco hisses venomously, and feels Nico reach over to pull the pillow away from his face. He struggles for a moment to keep it, but Nico manages to pry it out of his grasp and toss it to the other side of the bed.

‘You keep saying that,’ he says. ‘Is this that Harry Potter guy? He sounds important.’

‘He’s a wanker. But yes, he’s the reason my parents and I aren’t in prison.’ He can taste the acid on his tongue as he says it. ‘Fuck, that was a ridiculous show. It took them a while to trial us, because in the end everyone just knew we were… cowards. There were other Death Eaters who were worse, more dangerous. So we were under house arrest for a while, just stuck in this awful purgatory. But in the end, they put us in front of the Wizengamot, and Potter… He came to speak for my mother. She had lied to the Dark Lord, right at the end. She did what pretty much everyone would be too terrified to do, and she—just so that she could find me. That’s all we wanted. To be together. So Potter, he told them all what she did.’

‘It sounds like she acted bravely.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But we were on trial, and Potter didn’t just speak for my mother. I wish he would have. He finished telling them what she did, and then he looked at me, and I must have looked a mess, then. I was terrified. More than anything, I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage my condition in Azkaban. Everyone would know, and I—’ Draco cuts himself off. He can hear his voice cracking. He hates to think about it, even the prospect of losing himself to the transformations.

Nico shifts forward, reaches out to run a hand down his shoulder comfortingly. ‘It’s alright,’ he says.

‘No, it wasn’t—because Potter, he saw me and I could see it in his eyes. He pitied me in that moment. He had already saved my life, and then he saved me again. He told them all about this one moment in the war where I didn’t hand him over, and I could have. That’s it. I just didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to stop it, but I just refused to even look at him. And he told them all this, and then the next day, the papers were plastered with headlines about Harry Potter redeeming the Malfoys, speaking on our behalf, proving that we had changed.’

‘And you had changed, right?’

Draco sits up, glaring at Nico. ‘No, of course I hadn’t changed! I was an idiot and a coward before the war, and I was an idiot and a coward after it. I just hitched myself to a different wagon. That’s all! That’s why you can’t listen to them, because they want to tell a redemption story. And this isn’t _that.’_

There is silence for a moment. Nico looks like he’s absorbing what Draco is telling him, a crease between his brows and a frown tugging at his lips. ‘What I need to know,’ he says, finally—slowly and carefully, ‘is, quite simply, whether or not you still believe in, uh, the genocide of muggles.’

‘I _never_ believed in that,’ Draco replies, immediately. ‘It was about controlling muggles, not killing them. Taking back our rightful place. Being able to live proudly as wizards, having power over those who were lesser than us. It was about taking back what we have lost, what we’ve given up.’

‘Oh, that’s so much better,’ Nico says flatly. He is very still; but when Draco reaches out to touch his hand, he flinches sharply away.

Draco freezes, trying to read his reaction. ‘I don’t think that way anymore,’ he says, slowly. ‘I’m explaining what it was like back then.’

‘Don’t you? Listen to yourself, Draco. It’s all present tense. You still think wizards have lost something—’

‘We have, though. There are fewer and fewer of us, and pureblood wizarding families will be a thing of the past in another generation or so. Is it wrong for me to think that’s sad? Is it wrong for me to want us to be proud of our heritage?’

Nico ignores him. ‘And you still think you have some sort of divine fucking mandate over us—over _muggles_.’

‘I don’t! I’m not trying to take over muggle society. Look at me! I’m just looking out for myself, do I seem like a power hungry dictator to you? I haven’t _done_ anything.’

‘Say it, then. Say that having magic doesn’t make you any better than us.’

Draco swallows. He opens his mouth. He wets his tongue. ‘I can’t,’ he says.

Nico stands up sharply. ‘I knew it!’ He turns on the spot. ‘For fuck’s sake. I wanted to give you a chance. I heard all this stuff, and I thought maybe, maybe it was true. Maybe you’re fine. Maybe you’ve learned and maybe the dodgy shit you say sometimes is just remnants. I could _understand_ that. But you still think this way! You think you’re better than me!’

‘I don’t!’ Draco follows him off the bed, getting to his feet. He’s naked, but he’s not even thinking about that. ‘For one thing, I’m a werewolf. I’m _nobody_.’

‘That’s all it is, isn’t it? You’re a werewolf, so you can demean yourself to be with me because you think no one else would have you. You think you’re being forced to lower your standards, and that’s how you justify it to yourself. That’s how you let yourself want me.’

Nico’s words douse Draco like a bucket of ice water tipped over his head. ‘What about you, then?’ he shoots back, voice rising. ‘You only want to fuck around with me because you’d shag anything from the bloody _X-Files._ Do you even like me? Or do you just want to be able to say you’ve gotten into bed with a werewolf? Another notch in your bedpost of _freaks.’_

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Nico snaps.

Draco recoils. ‘Guess you’ve gotten what you wanted, then.’

They both stare at each other for a long moment and, slowly, the heat running in Draco’s veins cools until he suddenly shivers, and reaches to grab his robe from last night off the floor. He pulls it around himself like a dressing down, very aware of Nico’s eyes on him.

‘I think,’ Nico says after a very long silence. ‘We both just said things we didn’t mean.’

Draco shrugs petulantly. ‘Yeah. Sure.’ He’s pretty sure he did mean every word he just said, but he’s also pretty sure he’s going to regret them all when he actually thinks them through.

Nico takes a step forward, closing some of the distance between them. ‘Here’s what I need to hear from you,’ he says in a level tone. ‘I need you to tell me that you understand why saying that wizards can and should be able to control non-magical people is messed up. I need to hear you say that you’re going to work on unlearning this shit. I need you to promise to keep talking to me about this.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or we’re done.’

It’s an instant reaction—one that Draco cannot control. He immediately tears up and, within seconds, he’s covering his mouth as tears slip down his cheeks and he is desperately trying to fight it all back.

‘Shit—’ Nico starts. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ Draco snaps, voice choked up. He rubs the heels of his hands at his eyes. _Get angry,_ he tells himself. _You’ll stop crying. Fight back._ ‘I can’t believe you,’ he continues, forcing his voice to go hard, cruel. ‘You’re the one who won’t even consider being with me, and now you’re insisting I have to change for you! You won’t commit to me, why should I do anything for you, for what you need? What about what I need?’

‘This isn’t about me,’ Nico says. ‘It’s about basic human decency.’

‘Fine! How is this for basic human decency: you keep going on about wizards controlling muggles. I could have wiped your memory after our last argument. I could have slipped you a love potion at any time. I _should_ have obliviated you after you found out about magic. But I didn’t. I’ve never done anything to _control_ or _change_ you, because I love you just the way you are. And you can’t even do me the decency of taking me how I am.’

Any calmness that Nico is clinging to vanishes. The blood drains from his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. ‘If you can say that,’ he replies, every word trembling, ‘then that’s it. If you could even _think_ about doing that to me—’

‘I didn’t, though! I’m saying I _didn’t.’_

‘—If it even crossed your mind, it’s over. We’re over.’ He spreads his hands, palms out to Draco in surrender. ‘We’re breaking up.’

‘How can we break up if we’re not together?’ Draco bites back—but it’s nothing.

This time, Nico does not storm out. He just gets dressed at a normal pace and Draco can’t think of anything to do except stand a few feet away, watching him, pulling his robes tight around his body. His mind is racing trying to think of things to say, either to hurt Nico or to fix this. But nothing is coming.

Finally, Nico just grabs his phone off the bedside table and slips it into his pocket and says, ‘Look. Don’t think that you can’t… come to the café and stuff, alright?’

Draco doesn’t reply, mainly because he’s crying again and he doesn’t want Nico to notice. He looks at the floor.

‘If things change…’ Nico starts, but Draco just shakes his head.

‘Get out,’ he mutters, staring at his own bare feet.

He keeps staring at the ground as Nico pauses, crosses the room, walks down the hall and then, after a few short moments, Draco just hears the door open and close, and he knows Nico is gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Nothing, ever, has felt like this before. Draco has had rough days. He has had many rough days. Objectively, a good portion of them have been a lot worse than this. He has had days where he has been scared for this life, has had days where he has hated himself, has had days where he has felt gruesome and monstrous and pitiable.

But he has never just felt sad and alone like this before. It is a new sensation, this hollow and human regret. When Nico leaves, Draco spends a good hour just sitting on the floor, his back against the door of his closet, both hands pressed to his mouth, staring at nothing. Then staring at Melissa when he closes his eyes and she is suddenly there, on the edge of the bed.

He says to her, ‘You heard all that, then?’

He crawls across the floor and picks her up, holding her close, because in this moment he needs to be close to _someone:_ even just a haunted doll.

There are things that he needs to do. He needs to work on his wolfsbane. It takes him a very long while to work up the will to get off the floor, to pull himself together and do it. But after a while, every second becomes a ticking countdown to missing his window for adding the next lot of ingredients. So he forces himself to his feet, takes Melissa to the kitchen where he sets her down on the bench, and he does his best to switch off his emotions as he works.

Draco has always been good at this: closing the door on his feelings when he needs to. They wash up like a flood later as often as not, but he can compartmentalise as necessary. He does so now, dicing position ingredients on his kitchen counter as though in a trance. _Snick, snick, snick, snick,_ the steady rhythm of his knife against the marble chopping board.

He lets himself be comforted by the familiarity of it, the routine. But his hands shake more than they should, and the stems of the valerian roots come out uneven. He stares at them for a long time, breathing heavily, before deciding that he can’t risk it and starting over.

This time he cuts them perfectly, letting his mind go completely blank, and adds them to the wolfsbane slowly and carefully, stirring exactly as he needs to. He sets the lid back on the potion and leaves it to simmer.

Then he feels his chest start to ache, standing there in the centre of his kitchen. It overtakes him like a rot spreading up through his torso, feeling like it is eroding him from the inside, until it makes it to his throat, constricting it until he cannot hold it in any longer. He lets out a sob, and then he is crying again. He drops to the floor and presses his hands to the cold tiles to ground himself until he stops gasping for air.

The following day goes much the same. Periods of control and then intermittent periods of overwhelming sadness. He holes himself up indoors. It feels so starkly different to the irritation he felt the last time Nico walked out. That had been anger. Indignation. He wishes he felt angry now. Anger would be a relief.

But it is the next day that it goes tits up.

He needs to add moonstone to the potion. It needs to be done today. It is not the most delicate stage of the brewing, at all. The moonstone needs to be powdered with a simple spell and then added gradually to the wolfsbane on alternating rotations of stirring. It is something Draco could do in his sleep.

It turns out, however, not to be something he can do through tears.

Perhaps because it is so straightforward, he doesn’t bother to tamp down the fact that he is crying again when he starts this. The tears are coming and going anyway, like an overcast day that rains occasionally—sometimes drizzling and sometimes in sudden heavy torrents. He is kind of used to it.

So he powders the moonstone, holds the vial, starts to stir—and after three rotations he fucks up and repeats a direction.

‘Shit,’ he mutters, but keeps going. His vision is blurred, as though he is viewing the world through a haze of vaseline. He pours in a little more moonstone, changes the direction of his stirring, counts, adds more moonstone, and forgets to alternate again. _‘Shit.’_

None of this is disastrous on its own. But by the time he has fucked it up twice more, he can feel frustration humming so deeply under his skin that he knows one more mistake and he’s going to do something stupid.

He pours in a little too much moonstone.

 _‘FUCK!’_ he shouts, and throws the rest of the vial at the wall above the stove, where it shatters. The glass and the powdered gemstone erupt into a glittering cloud of shimmering shards. For a moment, it is beautiful.

Then the shards hit the surface of the potion and Draco realises what he has done. He has a split second to jump back and cast a shield charm before the whole concoction erupts, exploding over the walls and ceiling and kitchen tiles.

 

*

 

‘You told me eight years,’ Potter points out as he lets Draco into Grimmauld Place. ‘I’m starting to think you can’t actually brew wolfsbane.’

Sighing, Draco follows him up the narrow hallway. It is Saturday morning, two days since the accident with the potion—as, after cleaning it up, he had very reluctantly and very vaguely owled Potter about needing to come visit. ‘And here I’m starting to think you only agree to help me so that you can rub it in my face.’

‘That’s definitely it, Malfoy. Funny enough, I don’t actually go out of my way to watch you suffer.’

‘Are you sure? If there’s sufficient interest, I might start selling tickets,’ Draco mutters. He hears Potter snort, a couple of steps ahead of him on the stairs. ‘It’s a one man show. A performance art piece, really.’

‘Come off it.’ Potter levels a wry look at Draco as they reach the landing. ‘You’re doing fine for yourself, all things considered.’

Draco tilts his head back and gestures in the direction of the bathroom where he knows Potter brews the wolfsbane. ‘Just give me the potion,’ he says. ‘Then I can get out of your hair and you can go back to doing whatever you do on weekends these days. Give vanity interviews for the back pages of the Prophet? Play celebrity Quidditch matches where everyone lets you win?’

‘Mark stacks and stacks of homework,’ Potter replies, but he says it slowly. He is looking curiously at Draco, not moving to the bathroom. The searching look drags out on the pause, getting longer and longer.

Draco shifts and runs his hand through his dishevelled hair. He still has not managed to do much this week except sulk at home with Melissa and little motivation to do anything other than listen to the wireless and bake himself trays and trays of cupcakes in an effort to eat away his sadness. ‘Of course,’ he says. _‘Professor_ Potter now, isn’t it? Do you just have them write three rolls of parchment a week on your marvellous feats? Or is it just the same paper every fortnight with the title, _“Expelliarmus is the only spell you’ll ever need to use. Discuss.”’_

But Potter doesn’t even seem to register Draco’s weak attempt at a barb. His dark eyebrows draw together and his expression grows more baffled. He tilts his head and lets out a drawn out, ‘… Uhhh…’

‘What?’ Draco waits a moment, giving Potter time to reply. When he doesn’t, he repeats himself, sharper. _‘What?_ You’re wasting both our time just standing there looking like an idiot.’

Potter clears his throat. ‘You’re crying,’ he says, finally.

Draco starts. ‘No I’m not—’ he objects, but touches his eye with his fingertips, checking. He can feel dampness on his lashes, tears gathering at the corner of his eyelid. ‘Oh no. Bloody hell. This _keeps_ happening.’ He dashes away tears. ‘Ignore it.’

Predictably, Potter refuses to do the decent thing and leave it alone. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asks, voice hard.

‘None of your business.’

Potter’s expression turns to stone. ‘Are you in trouble? Have you gotten yourself caught up in something again—?’

 _‘No,_ I swear, Potter. Just shove off. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Annoyingly enough, I know you, Malfoy. You’re upset about something. I can tell.’

‘No shit.’ Draco’s voice cracks. ‘I can’t believe you gave up on becoming an Auror with skills of detection like that.’

‘If it’s Dark Arts—’

Draco rubs at his eyes harder. The tears aren’t going away—if anything, it’s getting worse. He can feel that awful constricting feeling in his chest again, like someone squeezing him tightly, stopping him from breathing. ‘It’s not. Just—can we please just get the potion?’

Potter folds his arms, glaring up at Draco. ‘Not until you tell me what you’ve got yourself into. I’m not joking, Malfoy. I have no reason to trust you, and—’

‘For fuck’s—’ Draco stops attempting to dash away the tears that are prickling behind his eyes and balls his hands into fists, pressing them hard to his eyes. ‘I got dumped, okay? I got dumped this week and I’ve been a mess and that’s why I fucked up my potion and I can’t—I can’t stop _fucking_ crying. Nothing sinister here. No mystery to solve. Just Draco Malfoy being sad because he bollocksed up the only good thing in his life.’

There is a long silence before finally Potter says, quietly, ‘Oh. Right.’ Then: ‘Er, sorry, Malfoy.’

And that is enough that the agonising constriction in his chest becomes too much, once again, and Draco curls in on himself. He presses his wrist to his mouth, silent sobs heaving through his body like convulsions.

Potter—bloody _Saint_ Potter—reaches out a hand to Draco’s elbow, tugging lightly. ‘Come on, it’s… come into the living room and sit down.’

As things go, it’s not quite as bad as the last time Potter caught him crying, but it’s pretty spectacularly awful. Potter guides him to a small sitting room on this floor and summons a box of tissues as Draco, through a haze of blurred vision, sits on the couch and buries his face in his hands. He is trying to cry quietly, but it’s not as though that makes it look any less pathetic.

He feels the cushions dip as Potter sits down beside him, a good deal of space between them.

‘Er,’ Potter says, and awkwardly pokes a tissue into Draco's hand. ‘Take this.’

‘Thanks.’ The tissue doesn't do much. Draco just presses it to his face until it's damp and useless and he is still crying. This is the worst it's been in days—maybe the fact that Potter is watching him is exacerbating it. ‘Ugh,’ he gets out wetly. ‘I'll kill you if you tell anyone about this.’

Potter just pats him twice on the shoulder. ‘There, there,’ he says, uncomfortably. ‘Get it out, I guess.’

‘It should already be gotten out,’ Draco groans into his tissue, and blows his nose. Potter passes him the box. ‘I can't _do_ anything. I feel like I'm going crazy, I'm just so _sad_. All the time. Why am I so sad about this? He's just a boy.’

‘Er, I dunno? I didn't even know you were seeing someone.’

Draco tilts his neck back, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly. He feels flushed all over and he knows his face is splotchy and gross.

A bad situation gets worse. ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ Black says, appearing in the doorway, ‘did you see where I left the—’ He cuts himself off, staring at the scene in front of him. Draco can feel his lips trembling as he tries to hold back more sobbing, and next to him Potter is shaking his head at his godfather as he pats Draco's shoulder uselessly. Black blinks, says ‘Nevermind,’ and turns around.

A second later, however, he is back in the doorway. ‘No, wait. What?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco sees Potter mouth _help me_ at Black, who steps slowly into the room, sliding his hands into his pockets.

‘Malfoy’s boyfriend broke up with him,’ Potter explains hesitantly.

Black raises an eyebrow. ‘Understandable.’

Draco blows his nose again. ‘Fuck off,’ he mutters into the tissue.

Black sighs, and crosses the room to a cabinet on the far wall. Draco watches him, through slightly blurry vision, as he pulls out a few rocks glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey. He drops the glasses down on the coffee table, slides one towards Draco, and pours out a measure of whiskey. ‘Drink that,’ he says.

Draco stares at the glass for a moment. It is a beautiful antique tumbler, glittering crystal, and he suspects it is one of the few things in this house—aside from the house itself—which has always belonged to the family. He picks up the glass and downs the drink in one mouthful.

Although it burns on the way down it seems to soothe some of the raw feeling in his throat. He exhales and slumps back on the chair.

Black fills up the glass again, then pours out some for himself and Potter. ‘When did this happen, then?’

‘Few days ago,’ Draco mutters. Potter’s hand has stopped patting awkwardly at his arm now, which is probably good. ‘I don’t actually want to be comforted,’ he lies. ‘And I know you don’t want to comfort me. I’m just having some slight...’ He gestures vaguely. ‘... emotional regulation issues.’

‘It happens,’ Potter says. ‘Believe me, I’m surrounded by dumb, hormonal teenagers all day every day. Emotions don’t scare me anymore. Sometimes you just have to ride it out. Nothing is the end of the world.’

Draco looks at him sidelong. He takes a small sip from his refilled glass of whiskey. ‘Alright, _Dumbledore.’_ He sniffles, and lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s just really hard,’ he says. ‘It took me by surprise. I feel like, like I could have stopped it if I’d seen it coming. And now I just kind of want a Time-Turner, but it’s too late for that.’

‘How long had you been together?’ Potter asks.

Draco shrugs. ‘Who knows. Definitions. We had some slight disagreements on that front. At first it was very… casual. But from my point of view, we’d been getting pretty serious for at least a couple of months.’ He feels his eyes prickling again, and dashes his sleeve across his face. ‘I might have been getting a bit too serious.’

‘Can’t have been _that_ serious,’ Potter says. ‘You were keeping it pretty quiet, obviously.’

Draco snaps back, annoyed. ‘Excuse me? What on earth would you know about the details of my relationship?’

‘Just that I hadn’t heard about it. I know you keep to yourself these days, but you’re still a Malfoy. There are about five gay wizards in Britain, and three of them are in this room. It’s not like no one would talk, so you must have been keeping it under wraps. That’s all.’

‘Yes, okay, Detective Potter. You got me. It was very hush-hush. Clandestine, even. Who the fuck am I going to tell? Do you want me to make a press statement every time I go on a date? Good lord, I don’t have to justify this. It _felt_ serious, okay? It _felt.’_

Potter raises his hands. ‘Okay.’

‘So, who was it?’ Black asks. He still hasn’t sat down, he’s just standing on the other side of the coffee table, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace, drinking his whiskey.

‘You don’t know him.’

Black snorts. ‘Of course we know him,’ he says. ‘Should I pull out the Pure-Blood Directory? We can go through name by name until we hit on the poor guy.’

‘You can try,’ Draco says, rolling his eyes. He takes another drink of whiskey, finishes the glass, and reaches for the bottle to top himself up. It is starting to warm him through and, superficially at least, make him feel better. ‘He won’t be in there.’

Black grins. ‘Oh, is this why it’s so secret? Can’t tell your mum and dad that you’re seeing a half-blood?’

Potter elbows him. ‘Go on, what’s his name, then?’

Draco sighs and rubs his arm. ‘Nico.’

Potter and Black share a look. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ says Potter, shrugging.

‘Last name?’ Black asks.

‘Pereyra,’ Draco admits. ‘Won’t mean anything to you.’

‘You’re right, it doesn’t,’ agrees Black. ‘What’s the situation, then? Is he from overseas?’

‘No, born here.’ Draco leans against the arm of the couch, propping his chin on his hand. He doesn’t actually mind playing twenty-questions about this. As much as he hates to admit it, it’s kind of helping to just sit here and be interrogated. At least he isn’t just moaning at Melissa for once.

‘He’s not muggleborn, is he?’ Potter asks, disbelievingly. ‘No way, you wouldn’t—’

Draco hums. ‘He’s not a muggleborn wizard, no.’ He watches both Black and Potter look at each other, squinting in thought. He huffs out a humourless laugh. _‘Fine,_ I was dumped by a muggle. Just a muggle. Are you happy?’

Black bursts out laughing, doubling over and nearly spilling some of his drink.

Scowling, Draco adds, ‘It’s not actually funny.’

‘It’s a little bit funny,’ he gasps, pushing his long hair back off his face. ‘Good work.’

 _‘You_ were dating a muggle?’ Potter asks, sceptically. _‘You?’_

Draco opens his mouth to reply.

But before he can, an unfamiliar voice: ‘I don’t see why any of you would be surprised. This is just typical for a Malfoy.’

Draco jumps in his seat and looks rapidly around. He can’t see another person in the room with them. ‘Who was that?’ he asks sharply. The voice had been wry, drawling and had come from directly behind him. Or so it seemed.

‘Just Phineas,’ Potter replies, and points past Draco’s shoulder. Draco twists on the chair. There is a portrait hanging on the wall next to the window, with a snide looking wizard sitting in the frame, seeming somewhat bored. He has a short, pointed beard and sly, ink-black eyes. Draco relaxes somewhat.

‘Oh, wonderful,’ he says. ‘Just what I need. More dead people witnessing my misery.’

‘Usual victim complex,’ Phineas sneers. ‘Hypocritical, two-faced and persecuted whenever it’s convenient. Really living up to your name there.’

Draco stands up, turning to face the painting. ‘You don’t know _anything_ about me.’ He points at Phineas. ‘And no one asked for your opinion.’

‘We never do,’ Black says. ‘I don’t even know why Harry leaves him up there.’

Phineas raises a painted eyebrow at Draco. ‘I know that as much as they love to pretend it’s not the case, your family has a long history of fraternising with muggles, when it suits them.’

‘How dare you insinuate—’ Draco feels his cheeks flushing with anger. ‘We are pureblood all the way back as far as you can trace the family. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Every single marriage and every single Malfoy heir is verified as being legitimate, I have the records to prove it. Who are you, anyway? The Black family line is _much_ more questionable than ours, I’ll have you know.’

‘He was a headmaster of Hogwarts,’ Black interjects. ‘My great-great-grandfather, which, now I think about it, probably makes him _your_ great-great-great-grandfather, Malfoy.’

‘So it might not be worth a big fight about blood purity,’ Potter adds. ‘You’re the same family, after all.’

 _‘He_ brought it up!’ Draco takes a step closer to the painting. ‘I don’t appreciate being insulted by some dusty old painting of some stupid old teacher. Especially not with baseless lies.’

Phineas shakes his head. ‘I didn’t suggest that the Malfoys are going around having illegitimate half-blood children left and right,’ he scoffs. ‘Although it would not necessarily surprise me. But the truth of the matter is that your ancestors vocally opposed the Statute of Secrecy until it was instituted, simply because you couldn’t bear to distance yourselves from all your muggle society.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’ Draco shakes his head. ‘Muggle society? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s classic revisionism. Muggle nobility had its opportunities. Luxuries, entertainment, socialisation, influence, privileges. Of course they took advantage of it and wanted it to keep going. But you’ve always been a slippery lot, haven’t you? The moment the Statute went into effect and your family felt the general opinion turning against those elite social connections, of course they had never been involved in anything of the sort. No summer trips to country estates, no balls, no sumptuous dinners and hunting trips. Nevermind all the time spent bragging endlessly about those very things.’

Draco splutters. ‘I have no idea where you got these ideas, I’ve never heard anything of the kind,’ he says—although he has to admit, it all sounds pretty likely. ‘And besides, none of that has anything to do with me. It’s not as though I’m integrating myself into muggle high society. I’m not even trying to _make_ anything for myself. Nico isn’t an Earl or a Duke or anything. He’s a fucking barista who somehow gets by payday to payday and lives in the attic of a house he shares with six other people.’ He can hear his voice rising. ‘I’m not using muggles to advance myself. I wish I was! I could justify that! I can’t justify _this_ to anyone, just falling in love with some, some _coffee boy_ who cares too much about cryptids. Don’t try to make this out as me being opportunistic, because it’s _not. ’_

‘I really don’t care,’ Phineas replies.

Draco slams down the rest of his third whiskey. ‘Well then, you can keep your thoughts to yourself,’ he snaps. He drops back into the chair, wiping his eyes. ‘Oh fuck, now I’m crying again.’

‘Have another tissue,’ says Potter.

‘Have another drink,’ says Black, filling up his glass.

Draco dabs the fresh tissue at his eyes.

Potter looks at him questioningly. ‘So, er… obvious question, probably an obvious answer but, why did he break up with you?’

‘Yeah, the obvious reasons,’ Draco sniffles. ‘He found out stuff about the war and Death Eaters and, you know, _me._ And then he said that I think wizards are better than muggles—’

‘Which you do.’

‘I don’t think _I’m_ better than _him_ though. But he pointed out that that's mainly because I hate myself, and we… look, I don’t know. There are layers, I suppose. But I guess it boils down to about what you’d expect.’

‘That you are a prejudiced, selfish, unpleasant little twat?’

‘Thanks, Potter. Good summary. I really appreciate it.’

‘No problem.’

Draco sighs deeply. ‘I’m _trying,’_ he says. ‘It’s obvious that I’m trying, right? I stay out of the way, I toe the line. If anyone asked me, I’d say that I regret what I did in the war. I’d say that I think all these reformations are what the wizarding world needs, and that you and Granger and all your lot are doing the right thing. What more can I do to show that I’ve changed?’

Potter pulls a face. ‘Staying quiet and occasionally giving lip service to the fact you know you were wrong just shows that you’re trying to keep your head down to avoid having mud slung at you. That’s not changing, Malfoy. That’s just keeping your thick mouth shut. Which, don’t get me wrong, is a good thing.’ He shrugs. ‘But if you actually wanted to prove you’ve changed you’d get out there, you know? You would actually denounce the views you held, the stuff you did. Honestly? You’d tell people you’re a werewolf—’

 _‘That_ is not happening.’

‘—And you would use it to help other werewolves. Malfoy, I don’t care what you do. But to answer your question? No. It’s not obvious you’re _trying._ It’s obvious that you just want to live in whatever relative comfort you can get for yourself.’

Draco furrows his brow. ‘It’s not as easy as you make it sound, Potter,’ he says. ‘It’s fine for you to say that. You’re just such a naturally good, pure, wonderful, heroic, self-sacrificing person. But I didn’t grow up as a deprived Dickensian orphan whose hardships only served to cement their ideological purity. It’s not like I can just wake up one morning and suddenly forget everything that was instilled into me.’

Black snorts into his whiskey. ‘Yeah, you can,’ he says.

‘What would _you_ know?’

‘Are you joking? I grew up in the exact same toxic bullshit environment as you did, Malfoy.’

Draco shakes his head. ‘Sure, and you rebelled against it every day of your life. It doesn’t count if you never internalised it.’

‘Of course I internalised it!’ Black barks out a wry laugh. ‘You should have seen me my first few weeks at Hogwarts. I couldn’t take my eyes off Remus, because I’d never met a half-blood before and I was convinced he was going to act like an animal. I was scared to share a dormitory with him that first night. I was scared of all of them, and what my parents would think about the company I was keeping. I thought I was betraying something. But I got over it.’

‘And I’ve been fucking a muggle. So clearly I’ve gotten over it too.’

‘That’s—No.’ Black rubs his forehead. ‘I’m talking about confronting the thought processes behind these things and just… letting them go. It’s not really hard. You just need to be brave.’

‘So in summary, it’s not on the table,’ Potter adds.

Maybe it’s because he’s on his fourth drink and he’s possibly replaced a good portion of the hydration in his body that he has lost through tears with whiskey, but Draco pauses and says, ‘No. No, I could do that. That makes sense.’ It sounds like something Nico would say, anyway, which probably means that it’s what he’s looking for.

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Potter says.

Draco waves him off. ‘Or at least I can learn all the right things to say, it doesn’t have to be sincere.’

‘Alright, _Dumbledore._ You realise that just doing this to win back the chap who dumped you isn’t the best start?’

‘It’s not that,’ Draco says. ‘It’s about becoming a better person. It’s about dismantling harmful perceptions that I hold, and emerging as a more tolerant, self-actualised version of myself.’

‘Is it actually?’

‘Fuck no, it’s about getting laid. Get your head out of your arse, Potter.’

To his surprise, Potter bursts out laughing. It’s a warm, rich sound, and Draco smiles bemusedly as Potter curls forward, holding his nearly empty glass loosely in his fingertips as he chuckles. ‘Cool,’ he says finally, straightening. ‘That good, then?’

Draco groans and flops back onto the cushion. _‘So_ good,’ he replies, pressing his hand to his chest. ‘He’s the most beautiful—he is honestly just, everything about his face is perfect. You have no idea.’

‘I know a thing or two about perfect faces,’ Potter says with a grin, linking eyes with his godfather—who winks.

‘No, eugh. No.’ Draco shakes his head and his hair falls in his eyes—which feel a bit tired and puffy from extensive crying. There is also a slight chance he might be a little bit drunk. ‘For one thing, Nico isn’t seventy years old.’   

‘I’m forty-five!’

‘I will admit, Potter, that your sugar daddy might have been fairly good looking in his heyday. But you can’t deny that the shaggy dog, starved, poor-man’s Stubby Boardman look isn’t doing anyone any favours.’

‘It’s doing a lot of favours for me, I promise,’ Potter replies.  

‘It wasn’t just sex,’ Draco continues, emotionally. ‘And it wasn’t just that he was so, so good-looking. It was mostly just… I could be myself around him, and it always felt real. He _saw_ me, all of me, and even when he didn’t understand, he would find a way to relate. He always made me laugh. I always made _him_ laugh. He would argue if he didn’t agree with me, and—except at the end—it never felt like he was arguing because he thought ill of me as a person. It was just that he loved to debate, and he loved to learn. I never felt like I wanted _not_ to be around him. It was like we could be together all the time, and it was just comfortable and easy and nice. He’s a good person, and he made me feel like I could be a good person too.’

‘That’s nice, shame it didn’t work out.’ Potter says. ‘You’re crying again.’

Draco nods. ‘I know. Can I have my wolfsbane now?’

‘Yeah, absolutely.’ Potter looks at his watch. ‘Fuck, I have so much work to do.’ He shoots Black a glare. ‘I could have done this last night if someone would stop sneaking into the school and getting busted by Minerva.’

‘She’s softening,’ Black replies. ‘I think she’ll just offer me a job soon enough.’

Potter stands, putting his empty glass down on the coffee table. He turns to Draco. ‘Come on, up. Let’s get you the potion.’

Draco follows Potter to the bathroom and automatically goes to collect the peanut butter jars stacked in the cupboard. He dashes away tears as Potter serves up the doses of wolfsbane for him, sealing them all carefully.

‘Did he know?’ Potter asks, as he puts the jars into a conjured paper bag and passes them to Draco. ‘About the werewolf thing?’

‘He knew me more than anyone ever has,’ Draco answers, and sees Potter smile and shake his head, looking at the bathtub.

‘Good luck self-actualising,’ he says. ‘Now get lost.’

Draco doesn’t apparate home. He is a little too tipsy for that. Instead he walks, letting the cool air soothe his flushed and sensitive eyes and slowly sober him up. He takes the long way, avoiding the café. He should be deeply embarrassed by all this, he knows.

But right now, he can’t quite find it in him.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Here’s the thing,’ Draco tells Melissa the following day. The sun is streaming through the window, bathing the apartment in the first rays of sunlight which mark the shift to Spring. Draco woke this morning feeling, much like the day outside, refreshed. He has not cried once so far—although it is only ten o’clock. ‘I’ve been trying for  _ years _ to be someone I aspired to. But I can’t be. I  _ can’t  _ be. I’m never going to be who I was supposed to be. I can’t be the family heir, I’m not even pureblood anymore. I thought if I faked it hard enough it would be… but there’s no way back on track. It’s over.’

He paces the room and glances at the doll. She is still and calm, bathed in sunshine. 

‘There’s nothing to lose if I try something different. I can’t lose any more than I already have.’ 

Is this it, then? He has been stuck for a long time. Chains on him, binding at the wrists and ankles. He has tried walking in them, moving in them, covering them so that they are invisible. He has become good at pretending they are not there. 

But he never did go to Azkaban. He only wears these chains because he guided them on himself, never so much as asking if there was a key. 

‘Does that metaphor work?’ he asks aloud, mostly to himself. ‘The chains are the fact that despite being born into wealth and position I can’t access the benefits anymore—but I’m still bound by the rigid structures. That works, right?’ He glances at Melissa. ‘Nico would know.’ 

They never did teach textual analysis at Hogwarts.

‘Sorry Melissa,’ he says, sitting down next to her. ‘We always talk about me. I should work on that. It’s well past time we pulled some records and sussed out who you were, don’t you think.’ He nods at her. ‘Yes, I think so. Couldn’t have been a pureblood, could you. That would be easy. But no, you’re going to make me go to the Department of Public and Wizarding Family Records, aren’t you?’

Draco has visited the records office a number of times in the past, to lodge various unnecessary points of identification for the ownership of various items in his collection. It has always been a pain in the neck, sometimes taking weeks or months to approve and verify his details. However, he knows that they have historical births, deaths and marriages on file and open for public access—in theory. 

There should not be anything stopping a Death Eater from accessing anything in there. 

Except, Draco learns, for bureaucracy. 

‘What do you mean you won’t accept my wand as identification?’ he asks the witch at the counter incredulously. The place has renovated since he was last here. It used to be dark and poky with stacks and stacks of seemingly senselessly organised parchment on every surface. Now, however, the Department is spacious and clean, brightly lit and sterile. The archivist peers at him from behind brightly jewelled glasses. 

‘We need two points of identification if you want to access the records. It’s just for security purposes.’ 

‘Gringotts is fine with just my wand,’ Draco argues. ‘Why would some moth-eaten old papers need more security than the  _ bank?’  _

‘What Gringotts does has nothing to do with us. We aren’t trying to make anything difficult, but we need to be able to keep reliable records on who accesses the archives.’

‘I don't have any other identification on me. What do you need, exactly?’  
  
‘Your apparation license would be fine.’  
  
‘Fine, fine.’ Draco slips his wand back into his pocket. ‘I will apparate home and get my license. I'll be back shortly.’  
  
‘You really shouldn't be apparating without it on you,’ she points out.   
  
He blinks. ‘Literally no one does that,’ he says, but she just shrugs at him. ‘Fine, I'll floo.’  
  
‘Oh, the Ministry floos are down for the afternoon,’ she informs him. ‘For maintenance.’  
  
Taking a deep breath, Draco closes his eyes. ‘I'll be back in an hour or so then,’ he says and, before she can reply, he turns and exits the Department.   
  
He apparates home.   
  
He apparates home—but spends half an hour searching everywhere for his apparation license, which he _knows_ he has, but doesn't keep with any of his other documents because no one ever needs it for _anything._  
  
‘This is ridiculous,’ he says as he finally finds it inside the door of his bathroom cabinet. ‘I knew I'd been putting this off for a  reason.’   
  
Since he doesn't want to return too quickly, he walks back to the Ministry. Inside it is nearly empty for the afternoon, everyone locked up in their offices and working. He gets into the elevator and heads back down to the records department.   
  
The elevator dings, and he steps out to a brass gate across the door. There is a sign hanging on the ornate grate which says, ‘Closed. Opening hours: 10am-2pm.’  
  
Draco glances at his watch. It is three minutes past two. ‘Lazy bastards,’ he mutters, and leaves.   
  
He comes back the following day armed with his wand and apparation license. The same witch with the jewelled glasses smiles at him from behind the counter. ‘Excellent,’ she says when she sees what he has in his hands. She takes them, and with a trap of her wand the scroll of parchment in front of her begins to copy out his details.   
  
When it's done, she picks it up, passes it to him and says, ‘Last thing, you just need to get this access request validated.’  
  
‘Are you kidding me?’   
  
‘There's a list on the back—’ She turns the paper over in his hands. ‘These are the professions who can verify it. They'll just need to sign down here, once they've seen your identification themselves.’   
  
Draco glances at the list. It is long, and very small print—but as far as he can make out, it boils down to _anyone who works at the Ministry._  
  
‘Can’t you sign it?’ he asks.   
  
‘Afraid not.’  
  
He stares at her. ‘This is insane,’ he says. ‘I know you don't do this to everyone.’  
  
‘We do,’ she replies innocently. ‘We're _really_ not trying to be difficult.’  
  
‘Merlin,’ Draco groans, but rolls up the parchment. ‘Alright, I'll be back.’  
  
‘Just to let you know,’ she says sweetly. ‘We close early today. At eleven-thirty.’  
  
‘Why,’ Draco gets out through gritted teeth, ‘would you even bother opening for an hour and a half?’  
  
‘We don't get the most traffic.’  
  
‘I can't imagine why. I'll be back tomorrow.’ Draco turns on his heel and leaves.   
  
He can feel frustration boiling inside him and he's slightly worried that he's going to break his day and a half streak of not crying. He gets in the elevator and heads upstairs, but in the main atrium of the Ministry he just drops down on a hardwood bench next to the lift and leans against the wall, closing his eyes and groaning.   
  
He sits there for a while, just letting his emotions settle, until he hears footsteps approach. He doesn't open his eyes, but he easily recognizes the voice that says, coolly, ‘Malfoy.’  
  
‘Granger,’ he replies.   
  
‘What are you doing here? Are you alright?’ Despite her words, her voice betrays a complete (and foreseeable) lack of concern.   
  
Draco realises he must look pretty rough, just slumped against the wall. In response he mimes shooting himself in the temple, but opens his eyes to look at her. ‘I'm having a week.’   
  
Granger is clearly heading up to her office. She's dressed in crisp, professional robes, her frizzy hair pulled up away from her face. She has a quill sticking out behind her ear.   
  
‘Anything I should know about?’ she asks pointedly.   
  
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘Although I'm confident Potter will give you all the details soon enough.’  
  
She looks surprised. ‘What does Harry have to do with anything?’  
  
‘I _might_ have had a mild breakdown at his house.’ Draco rolls his shoulders, straightening up. ‘And cried on him a little bit. Everything is fine. No one has joined forces with any new Dark Lords, which I know is the limit of your concern.’  
  
Her lips quirk in suppressed amusement. ‘You cried on Harry?’  
  
‘There's nothing to see here,’ he says. ‘Move along.’  
  
‘Alright, but just so you know, the Ministry isn't necessarily designed to be the best place for a sulk.’  
  
‘Noted,’ he replies, more than ready to go back to sulking. She turns and steps away, but before she can get more than a few metres Draco stands up and says, ‘Actually wait, hold on!’  
  
She glances over her shoulder. ‘What is it?’  
  
He pulls out his form. ‘Do you have a minute?’  
  
Slowly, she faces him again, one eyebrow rising up towards her hairline. She glances at the clock on the wall behind Draco. ‘Barely.’  
  
‘Can you just sign off this verification thing for me?’ He holds out the form for her to take. ‘It's nothing big, I'm just trying to access some stuff on the Public and Family Records floor.’  
  
Granger reads the form carefully and then looks up at him, expression grim. ‘And what, exactly, are you trying to get your hands on?’  
  
‘What’s it to you?’ he replies automatically, before realising that's a dumb fucking thing to say when asking for a favor. ‘I mean, just some death records and stuff. It's purely academic.’  
  
‘What are you researching?’  
  
‘I do a bit of antiquing,’ he explains. ‘In my free time. I have an item that I'm trying to learn more about.’  
  
‘And you need death records for that?’  
  
‘Yes? I'm trying to work out the original owner. I have a first name and I know the year they died.’ He pauses. ‘Well, I know her birth year too. But I'm more interested in how she died.’  
  
She narrows her eyes. ‘What's the item?’  
  
‘Spooky doll.’  
  
‘I don't believe you,’ she tells him, giving back the form. ‘And I'm not interested in helping you, anyway.’  
  
Draco scowls. ‘This isn't a “Hermione Granger Hobby Approval” form, you know. I'm only asking you to verify my identity.’  
  
‘Oh, alright, alright.’ She glances again at the clock. ‘I suppose you’ve convinced me you’re definitely you. Pass it back.’ She takes the form from Draco, unrolling it and charming it to hover neatly in the air so that she can sign it. She pulls her quill from behind her ear. ‘Show me your wand and license.’   
  
Draco takes them both out of his cloak, holding them up so that Granger can see them.   
  
‘New wand,’ she comments, licking the tip of her quill and signing.   
  
‘Old new one,’ he replies as she rolls up the parchment once more. ‘Had it for years. It’s good.’ It’s similar to his old one, in a lot of ways. Still very pliant, the wood still hawthorn. The core has changed—heavy handedly—to werewolf heart string. When it chose him, Ollivander had raised an eyebrow and commented, ‘It used to be unicorn, yes? Hm. A loss of innocence, then.’   
  
(Draco had coughed in reply, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yeah, that must be it.’)  
  
‘Well, here you go.’ Granger hands him the parchment.   
  
‘Thank you,’ Draco says. ‘Really. I appreciate it.’   
  
She gives him a confused, slightly startled look. ‘Er, now I’m not so sure that you’re Draco Malfoy.’   
  
He laughs, and looks at her. It’s funny, he has known Hermione Granger since he was eleven and he has followed her career pretty closely since school—it would be hard not to, really. He won’t be surprised if she is Minister in a few more years. But he still struggles to think of her as anything other than Potter’s annoying, know-it-all mudbl _—muggleborn_ friend.   
  
Context is weird like that, he realises. When someone fits into one easy, structured role for a long time, it’s hard to see them as a full, real person.   
  
On a sudden impulse he says, ‘I’m sorry.’   
  
She squints at him. ‘For what?’ she asks, immediately suspicious.   
  
‘Uh…’ He hadn’t thought this far ahead, at all. ‘The Quidditch World Cup,’ he says, after a moment. ‘In the forest, afterward, when those muggles were being—by the Death Eaters, and all that.’   
  
‘I remember.’ 

‘I shouldn’t have said you would be next. I shouldn’t have thought it funny.’ He shifts. ‘In fairness, you  _ would _ have been next. You could make an argument that I was trying to look out for you. Deep down. Giving you fair warning. If you were being generous.’ 

‘Why on earth would I be generous about that?’ she asks, icily. ‘You were threatening me. In no reality could that even  _ remotely  _ have been interpreted as being well intentioned.’    
  
‘This apology is going badly,’ Draco observes.    
  
‘Do you know why?’    
  
Looking up at the high stone ceiling above them, Draco considers. ‘I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s because I turned it around to trying to justify my actions.’    
  
‘Yes,’ Granger replies. ‘And shifted the onus onto me validating you.’   
  
Validation would be nice.    
  
‘You're right. I'm sorry, without qualifications, for being a shithead.’   
  
‘Well that's… good,’ Granger says. ‘I don't need you to apologise to me. Honestly, I don't need anything from you.’ Checking the time, she adds: ‘I have a meeting. Bye, Malfoy.’   
  
He steps after her. ‘Wait.’   
  
A sharp turn. ‘Oh my god,  _ what?’ _ _   
_   
‘I'm trying a new thing.’   
  
‘It is being annoying? Because that's not new for you, I'm afraid.’   
  
He ignores her. ‘You're smart. You're… better than me at this stuff, probably. I need, er, guidance.’   
  
‘From me?’   
  
‘Yes.’   
  
Granger shakes her head and keeps walking briskly towards the elevators. She steps inside.    
  
Draco follows, getting into the lift just as the grating closes and Granger presses a button for her floor.    
  
‘Malfoy, I'm not interested in whatever you're—’   
  
‘Just… hear me out,’ he says. ‘I'm trying to become a better person.’   
  
‘You can start by not following me into an enclosed space so that you can harass me.’   
  
‘Oh come on,’ he says, as the lift begins to rattle and descend. ‘I would have thought you would be a little more understanding. We're both oppressed groups, after all.’   
  
The look she gives him is witheringly unimpressed. ‘Being a former Death Eater does not make you oppressed, Malfoy.’

‘I don't mean that, I mean the other thing.’   
  
Her expression shifts to confusion. ‘Other thing?’   
  
‘You  _ know,’  _ he says, meaningfully.    
  
‘That you're gay?’    
  
‘Not that.’ He makes an impatient gesture. ‘Don't play dumb, Granger, I know Potter will have told you all about it.’   
  
‘All about  _ what?’ _ she asks, as the elevator tremors and settles on a floor.   
  
‘About—’ The doors rattle open and two Ministry wizards step in with them, along with a fleet of memos. Draco cuts himself off. ‘Nevermind.’   
  
‘Harry hasn’t said anything about you,’ Granger says. ‘What do you mean—’   
  
Draco glares at her, with a pointed look at the wizards. ‘Never _ mind.’  _ They are descending another few levels now, and finally the doors open again, this time on Granger's floor. But she doesn't move to get out, instead looking at Draco questioningly.    
  
‘How are you an oppress—’ she starts, and with a sharp noise Draco ducks out of the lift to avoid responding to her.    
  
Granger follows.    
  
‘Malfoy,’ she hisses.   
  
‘You are late for a meeting,’ he reminds her. He can't believe that Potter hasn't told her, but if he's said nothing, Draco isn't about to.    
  
‘I don't care about that,’ she replies. ‘What are you talking about?’   
  
‘Nothing!’   
  
He's walking away quickly now, but she's close on his heels, lowering her voice to hiss at him.    
  
‘Malfoy, for God's sake—’   
  
‘You don't want to keep the Minister waiting.’   
  
‘I'm keeping Neil from the Goblin Liaison Office waiting, and I don't care.’ She grabs him by the upper arm, pulling him to a halt. They are in an empty corridor of closed doors, and Draco glances around for an escape route. He can't see one. ‘You aren't getting away until you tell me what you're on about.’   
  
‘Can't handle not knowing something?’ She squeezes her hand tighter on his arm, fingernails digging in through fabric, until Draco winces and squirms. ‘Ow, ow, stop.  _ Stop. _ What's wrong with you?’   
  
‘What's wrong with  _ you?’ _   
  
Draco wrenches his arm away, grabs his wand and casts a silencing spell around them. He lowers his voice. ‘I'm a werewolf,’ he says.    
  
He watches the way Granger freezes and then, slowly, her eyes go wide. She looks him up and down. ‘Oh my god,’ she breathes.    
  
‘Are you honestly telling me that Potter did not spill this one as soon as he found out?’   
  
‘No, he…’ She frowns. ‘Are you serious? Malfoy, if you are lying to me, I swear.’   
  
‘Why would I lie about this? I hate it. I've been keeping it secret for a decade.’   
  
‘It happened in school?’   
  
‘Yes. It was that night that Lupin got loose in the forest. I was out for a night time walk. He… he found me. I could see it in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. I tried to run, but I… I couldn't. Not fast enough.’   
  
Granger hits him in the arm. ‘It wasn't Remus, you idiot.’   
  
‘Nah, it was Fenrir Greyback. But I had you for a second there, admit it.’   
  
‘No you didn't,’ she says. Concern—a deep, heartfelt concern—warms her gaze, which softens as though melting. ‘Oh, Draco.’   
  
Something pleased stirs within him, a little chuffed with the reaction. He holds himself taller and lets himself stare wistfully into the distance. ‘It is quite tragic, isn't it?’ he sighs.    
  
‘I had no idea,’ she admits. ‘If I had listened to Harry… all his theories about you… maybe we'd have put it together.’   
  
‘I hid it well,’ Draco replies, stoically. He glances at Granger out of the corner of his eye, breaking his byronic stare. ‘Potter really had a lot to say about me, did he?’   
  
‘Too much. We mostly ignored him.’   
  
‘You mustn't blame yourself,’ he says. ‘No one realised for years. No one except—’ He cuts himself off, his feigned tragic air threatening to spill into actual sadness again. 

‘Harry,’ she finishes for him. It's not what he was thinking, but it's true enough. ‘This is good, Draco. We can help you, and you can help us. I'm working on some new werewolf legislation, but there's still so much stigma. If you support us—’   
  
‘I don't care about that,’ Draco interrupts. ‘I'm not out, so to speak.’   
  
‘Well maybe if—’    
  
‘You and Potter, honestly. Why is it so important for people to know what I am? What would it have changed if you'd worked it out when it happened? You're the ones who are so obsessed with treating werewolves like people. Surely it shouldn't matter if everyone knows or not, if it's just an inconsequential, unremarkable, totally normal and not at all monstrous part of me?’    
  
‘Treating people as equals doesn't mean ignoring differences, Malfoy. It's about having supports. Having people who know you.’   
  
Draco is forced to pause, recognising the truth in her words—the relief of Nico seeing him fully, knowing him without conditions. And the loosening of a constant, unrelenting bind inside him which had gone with it.    
  
‘It doesn't matter,’ he tells Granger. ‘I can't lose my family.’   
  
‘Well,’ she replies. ‘Then, what? What do you want from me?’   
  
‘I want…’ Draco swallows. Granger is a hard edge, sympathy and distrust tied up together in how she regards him. ‘I've recently become aware,’ he explains, ‘that there is a crack down the middle of me. It's like I'm trapped on one side of a cliff edge and it's slowly crumbling. It has been unstable for years and I didn't notice. I was just the idiot who built a house here. I don't see it supporting me much longer. So I have to get to the other side, somehow. I need to jump, but it's a long way, and I don't know if I can do it alone. I need help—’   
  
‘Building bridges,’ she finishes. ‘Poetic.’   
  
‘Oh, if you like beleaguered metaphors, I have more.’   
  
‘I'm good, thank you,’ Granger says. ‘But to be clear, the bridge is already there. What you're asking is for me to hold your hand as you cross it.’   
  
‘Ah.’   
  
‘Here's what I want from you. I want some evidence that you're willing to put in some effort, to give something back. This can't be a one way street—’   
  
‘Bridge.’   
  
‘No, the bridge  _ is  _ one way. The street—’ Granger rubs her temples. ‘Malfoy.’   
  
‘Sorry, I'm listening, I promise. You want me to give you something. Money?’   
  
‘I don't want money. I want something tangible, I want something that shows you're a human being and you'll work for what you're asking of me. Nothing big. Roughly the value of an hour of my time.’   
  
Draco considers her. ‘I could take you out to dinner?’   
  
‘Closer,’ she says. ‘Ron would kill you though.’ She checks her pocket watch. ‘I really have to go. Think about it. You're smart, you'll come up with something.’   
  
With that she lifts the silencing charm around the two of them with a wave of her hand, turns and leaves Draco behind to think about bridges, streets and the market value of intellectual labour. 

  
  
*    
  


  
Draco returns to the Department of Public and Wizarding Family Records the following day, form in hand. The witch with the jewelled glasses looks at him from behind the clear, gleaming silver counter. She takes the parchment, turns it over, records the signature.   
  
She smiles and says, ‘Wonderful. I’ll put this through.’    
  
‘Thank you,’ Draco says.    
  
‘Your access card will be sent to you in three to six weeks, and then you will be able to access the collection.’    
  
Draco opens his mouth to chew her out, emphatically and explicitly. But he catches himself, sucking in a breath and expelling it slowly through his nose, tamping his reaction down to an icy glare. With effort, he bites back the automatic response and tells her, ‘I’ll keep an eye out for it.’


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for this chapter: towards the end there's a tonal shift and discussions of child sexual assault. That's obviously been an undercurrent of the fic as a whole, but it's more explicitly discussed here along with misunderstandings that darken the situation a lot.

It is disappointing not to have access to the Records office for the next however many weeks, because Draco was planning to use that as a distraction from being pathetically heartbroken. He knows logically that the way to get over a breakup is to throw himself into something productive.

Learning to be a better person is that, but it’s also not: because he cannot stop his chest from aching, deeply bruised whenever he realises that he hates the thought that Nico has left him behind and thinks of him only as a disappointment. A bigot. A misstep.

Draco used to fancy Potter back in school. It had irritated him then, too, that Potter took one look at him and decided him not worth his time. But letting him think the worst of Draco turned into an armour. It was a comfort to know he was thought about at all, even if only in loathing.

This? This is not a comfort. This is a sick, unfair regret, a misunderstanding, injustice. And also the knowledge that it is _none_ of those things, and thinking about it that way doesn’t help. Nico saw him and knew him, and tried to understand him with an open mind; and yet still saw something rotten at the core.

It takes a while for Draco to think of something to do for Granger as, what? A bartering item? An olive branch? He spends time going back and forth on the idea at all—and then stalls, wondering what on earth the value of _conversation_ could possibly be.

In the end he decides that if she’s giving him an hour of her time, the best he can offer is an hour of his.

With that in mind, he turns up at her office several days later, late afternoon, carrying a small tray. He opens her door. He feels certain that he’ll be laughed out of the building, but he’s going to at least give this a shot.

‘Your calendar is free,’ he says by way of greeting. ‘I checked with the witch at the desk.’

‘Come in, then.’ Granger rolls up the stuff she is working on, slipping what looks to be a hair elastic around it to keep it closed and hovers it up to a file on her wall. ‘Honestly, I didn’t actually expect you to show up.’

Draco takes a few steps into the room and puts the tray he is holding down onto the table in front of her. ‘Here.’ He puts his hand on the back of the free chair, pulling it out half-way—but doesn’t sit, waiting on a reaction.

Granger appears to be fighting back a smile. ‘Where did you buy these?’

‘I made them.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘You _made_ them?’

‘No need to say it like they’re poisoned.’

The macarons are perfect. It’s not unlike potion making, really, baking. Deliberate, careful, precise. He made three flavours: lavender and vanilla, jasmine rose and earl grey. All of them are decorated with laced drizzles of icing, small crystals of glittering sugar, and dried rose petals, lavender flowers and tea leaves.

Draco feels very defensive.

‘I don’t think you poisoned them,’ Granger says—but she hesitates before pulling off the plastic Tupperware lid. ‘I didn’t know you bake.’

‘I have a sweet tooth. I just thought it was a fair exchange. It took time to get the icing looking like that, I’ll have you know.’

She chews the inside of her cheek, still seeming reluctant to try one. ‘I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,’ she informs him. ‘My parents are dentists.’

Draco tenses. ‘Give them to Weasley, then. I can go.’

‘No, I—’ Finding a steely resolve, Granger picks up a macaron. After inspecting it carefully, she nibbles it. Seemingly satisfied, she says, ‘Have a seat, Malfoy.’ She takes a larger bite and nearly moans, before quickly stifling the sound behind her hand, embarrassed.

‘They’re quite good.’ Draco smirks. ‘The trick is getting the air bubbles out before they go in the oven.’

‘You should pass that onto Remus,’ she tells him. ‘Sit _down,_ already.’

He does as he is told.

Granger gives him a searching look. ‘Harry told me what’s brought all this about. I’m not sure I believe him, or whether this is one of his conspiracy theories about you. He said you had a muggle boyfriend.’

‘Had, yes,’ Draco replies glumly.

‘I'm honestly struggling to believe this isn't just an elaborate prank. You're a werewolf. You were dating a muggle. You want to expand your horizons. It all sounds very, very unlikely, Malfoy.’

Draco sneers. ‘Believe me, right now I do rather wish it was all just a joke,’ he says—but even that is not quite true. He actually rather feels that he wouldn’t trade the last few months off for anything. ‘What do you want? Some kind of proof?’

‘Sure, if you have it.’

‘I have photos of Nico on my phone,’ Draco says, pulling it out. He holds it up. ‘I have _a phone.’_

It stings a bit to click through the gallery. He probably doesn’t need to do this, to prove anything to Granger. But also, he wants to prove something to Granger. As a point of pride. On his phone, there are first a series of distant photos of Nico playing football, the most recent of the handful of times Draco tagged along with him to a game. The pictures are frozen in motion: Nico bouncing the ball on his knees, his chest, bathed in night-time LED sport lights.

But the photo he passes to Granger, the first close-up picture he comes across, was one taken by Em.

It is of him and Nico, sitting on one of the mattresses in that front living room/haphazard bedroom of the share-house. Nico is grinning at the camera, his face basked in the blue glow from an open laptop next to him where he had been editing his blog. Draco is kneeling slightly behind him, miming a snarl as though moving in to bite, his hands held like claws. He is wearing one of Nico's jumpers and it swamps his figure. They are both eating Hula Hoops from a large bag in front of them. Draco has a crisp on each curled finger.

Granger frowns as she examines it. He sees her press the button on the phone to go back a photo. He knows the next one is Nico grabbing Draco’s hand and eating a crisp directly off his finger while Draco laughs.

‘Well, Harry certainly didn’t manufacture this whole cloth, I suppose.’ She passes him back his phone. ‘I have things for you.’

Draco looks up, surprised. For a moment, his gaze got caught on the photo, something deep and aching inside him, looking at the shape of Nico’s mouth against his finger, his half closed eyes. The expression of abandoned laughter on his own face. ‘Things?’

‘Yes.’ Granger stands up and crosses to one of the shelves on her wall. She pulls down a much, much, _much_ too large stack of books, and drops them in front of Draco. ‘This is just some starter reading,’ she tells him. ‘I thought you might get something out of it.’

Draco stares at the pile. It isn’t just books, actually. He lifts a few up and peeks at the stacks of paper underneath. Some is parchment; some of muggle paper, photocopied and grainy. All of the books and articles in front of him have titles like:

 

  * _Werewolves, Women and the Working Class: Intersections of Lycanthropy and Lives._


  * _How To Help House-Elfs Help Themselves._


  * _In The Stars: A Collection Of Writings From Queer Centaurs Around the World._


  * _A Big Problem, Or How To Turn Giant Oppression into Opportunity Without Taking Up Space._


  * _Wands and Words: Why Language Matters._



 

Amongst these, there are also a number of muggle works—full of words like _Privilege_ and _Patriarchy_ and _Politics_ and _Power._  

Draco considers whether it would be possible to win Nico back simply by wrapping these all up in a bow and leaving them on his front doorstep as a gift. Especially—he flicks through the pile—the book titled _Vampires, Werewolves, Fems and Bears: a New Look at Gay Hookup Culture In Wizarding London._

‘This one?’ he says to Granger, pointing at the book in question.

‘I thought it sounded relevant to your interests,’ she replies awkwardly. ‘I tried to pick things that would be useful and interesting to you. I haven't actually read that particular book. Tell me if it's good.’

Then after that, they just… talk. He wouldn't describe it as comfortable, or easy, or smooth. But it's a thing they do and it is manageable enough. Macarons help ease the dialogue. They always do, Draco decides smugly.

He isn't sure, when he leaves, what exactly he's coming away with. Aside from an incredibly heavy pile of texts that he knows he is going to find frustrating to absorb.

Before he left, Granger had asked for his phone again, and spent several minutes tapping quickly into it.

‘I put my number in there,’ she said when she passed it back to him. ‘If you have any questions about any of—’ (She gestured to the pile of books) ‘—That. I also put in Remus. And Harry. Just in case.’

Draco frowned.  ‘I don't need their numbers,’ he said.

‘Malfoy,’ she told him, clearly and deliberately. ‘I can see you've changed a bit recently. You're not an island. Empathy and emotional intelligence can be learned skills. They're nurtured. I think you've spent a long time locking down.’ She shrugged. ‘The only thing you can do is practice, and try to make human connections outside your bubble of experience. From those photos you showed me, it looks like you can do it. Maybe.’

‘I'm not human, though,’ Draco reminds her.

‘Don't be ridiculous. There's a chapter on that, actually, in the Babcock book in your pile. Read it.’

When in doubt, Draco thinks as he lugs the huge pile of books into one of the Ministry fireplaces to floo home, read a dense and needlessly complicated book about it. Then, what did he expect, going to Hermione Granger for help?

 

*

 

Initially, Draco assumes that there is no way he’ll be texting Granger about his reading any time soon. But he has never been someone who takes in information effectively in isolation. Back in school, people like Blaise and Theodore used to make fun of the amount of energy Draco would invest in talking Crabbe and Goyle through their homework. But it wasn’t—primarily—altruism. It was just how he processes information: absorbs it, regurgitates it, expands on it.

So when he finds himself halfway through the fourth chapter of the first book he picked up, reclining on his sofa with Melissa and a mug of tea to at least give a solid effort to this whole thing, he comes across something that gives him pause. And, even before he is quite aware he’s doing it, his phone is in his hand and he is typing a message.

‘This is ridiculous. Werewolves turned following the invention of wolfsbane benefit from privilege over those who had to live without it?! Nothing about being a werewolf is a privilege. This is trying to argue that those of us who manage it properly benefit systematically over the ones who can’t hide it. Excuse me?’

He sends another message immediately following:

‘There is NOTHING I do to manage my condition that other werewolves couldn’t do if they just put in the effort. Am I meant to feel guilty about that now? It just shows I’m doing something right.’

And a third message:

‘Unbelievable. They want to you feel ashamed for everything these days.’

Granger responds some time later.

‘I don’t agree with everything that author writes,’ she sends. ‘I think what she calls “passing” could just as easily be described as erasure. But it is definitely not true that everyone could do what you do.’

‘Sure, if they don’t want to try,’ Draco replies.

‘What if you didn’t know how to make wolfsbane?’

‘I didn’t. I learned. Easy.’

‘What if you didn’t have someone to learn it from? What if you hadn’t already had years of solid education in potion making?’

Draco hesitates, fingers on the keys of his phone. ‘I’d have found a book,’ he responds after a pause.

‘And taught yourself how to brew one of the most complex potions in the world from scratch? Without even knowing the basics of brewing?’

‘Who doesn’t know how to make a potion, Granger? LOL.’

‘Plenty of people. Even those who go to Hogwarts, if they don’t get through OWLs. They wouldn’t be able to make wolfsbane. Many accomplished potion makers can't, after all.’

Draco frowns at the screen. ‘OK, but there are still ways to buy it, if you can’t make it yourself.’

‘Highly monitored. You couldn’t get it legally if you wanted to “pass” as human.’

‘So illegally, then.’

‘Every month? What if you didn’t have the money?’

‘I’d get money,’ Draco replies in frustration.

‘How?’

‘Selling goods and services, I don’t know. How do poor people make money normally?’

‘A really good question,’ Granger responds. ‘Bye Malfoy.’

Draco takes the cue that the conversation is over and, because it is the fashion of the informal arrangement, bakes a tray of ginger nuts (choosing a recipe light on sugar) and sends them to Granger in a little wrapped parcel.

 

*

 

As the full moon draws closer Draco feels his mood—already delicate—plummet. Because here’s the thing: Nico has been the silver lining of his full moons for _years._ Before he knew his name. Before he knew him as anything other than the tall, handsome boy in deep-necked shirts who made amazing coffee.

Right at the beginning, when Draco had only recently moved out of the manor and was establishing his routine, it had been a game of whether the attractive muggle would be working that day—always hoping he would be, so Draco would have something nice to look at in spite of his misery. Then gradually, realising that months and months had gone by, and the gorgeous muggle was never _not_ working after the full moon.

Then realising it was deliberate.

And then, slower, realising that he was chatty, and weird, and annoying.

And that it was wonderful.

He recalls Nico saying, just before walking out, for Draco to not feel like he couldn’t come to the café after all this. Part of him, a desperate and hopeful part of him, is very tempted to go. To do his best to act normal. Fragile and exhausted, to try to let it be okay, and to see Nico and—and—and—

And what?

It is two days to the full moon. Draco is leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking his wolfsbane, looking out the window at the street below. The pavement is shining from rain earlier but it is sunny now, leaving everything glittering in the cool golden light. _Don’t go to the café,_ Draco tells himself. _Don’t do that to yourself._

He doesn’t trust himself. He doesn’t trust himself to make good decisions the morning after the full moon (or at all). He kind of feels like he might list, now, all the reasons why he should not see Nico until his heart has healed over at least a little bit more—and then, when it comes to it, he’ll feel sick and achy and weird and his brain won’t be working and he’ll just wander to the café automatically in a daze and then start crying, or something else dreadfully embarrassing.

So he owls Lupin.

He asks, ‘May I join you this month?’

It’s not that he wants to, exactly. But it’s a buffer. And he’s trying to take something on board.

_You’re not an island._

Lupin’s response comes quickly, three words written in neat handwriting on a scrap of parchment. ‘Any time, Draco.’

 

*

 

Draco tries to be different, this time round, when he transforms with Lupin—and Black. He does his best not to ignore them completely, or snap at them, or skulk and sulk and growl. He cannot join in with their easy, comfortable camaraderie. But he does his best to not, quote “be a killjoy this time”, unquote (Sirius Black, 2005).

The house is tall, and full of nooks and crannies that are interesting, Draco finds, to sniff out if he lets himself. So he mostly prowls around the living quarters of the house, burying his nose in weird little areas and exploring. It’s Potter’s home, so it’s good to be able to dig out things he probably shouldn’t know about him. Such as, ew, where in any given room he’s gotten a leg over with his godfather.

Aimlessly, Draco trots around the top floor of the house that has the grand master bedroom that Potter and Black share, poking his snout into the library, the reading room, the study, curious. He leaves Black and Lupin downstairs, grooming each others’ balls or something.

In the study, Potter starts when he catches sight of Draco—and the fur at the back of Draco’s long neck stands on end. He hadn’t been expecting to find him in this room. But here he is, up to his ears in parchment. The desk is very messy, disorganised, and there is a glittering Snitch buzzing around the room, currently ignored.

‘Are they being gross?’ Potter asks. ‘You can come in, I guess.’

Cautiously, Draco takes a step into the room, aware of Potter’s eyes on him. The parchments Potter is working through are covered in messy, teenaged scrawls—essays. He is writing with a red quill, leaving notes in margins, underlining words. He looks tired, and Draco suspects (accurately) that Potter left all this to the last minute on Sunday night, like an idiot.

He pauses, one paw frozen in the air and lets out a short bark and snaps at the snitch as it passes by his ear, ruffling his fur.

He hears Potter laugh.

Draco passes some time up here, chasing the snitch around the room as the stack of essays Potter has to mark gets gradually smaller and smaller. There is a narrow sofa under the window which Draco eventually jumps up onto and lies down, watching his school rival carefully. Potter does not seem bothered by the presence of a werewolf, which is not a surprise given the nonsense going on downstairs. He does, however, seem fairly stressed, running his hand through his hair and muttering to himself occasionally.

When he finally finishes his work close to midnight, he yawns, cracks his neck, and tells Draco he’s going to bed. Draco stays on the couch for a little while, then stretches his paws out in front of him, claws extending, before trotting out into the hall and joining Black and Remus downstairs.

They are down in the kitchen, eating cold chicken kiev that has developed a thin layer of fuzzy, beige mould.

He approaches very, very slowly. Sniffing.

Black’s ears prick. He looks up, holding a scrap of chicken in his teeth, and takes a couple of steps back, making room for Draco to sniff closer.

It does smell good.

It looks disgusting.

Lupin is lying on the ground, gnawing at a bone of what was once a roast held between his paws. The sounds of teeth on bone, the chew and tear of soft, cooked, uncomfortably pungent meat.

Draco takes another step forward, nose twitching. He can feel both dogs’ eyes on him.

Almost delicately, he bears his teeth and bites into a strip of breaded chicken, tugging it off the floor. It comes apart, skin parting from meat, mould weirdly fibrous on his tongue.

It’s the most delicious thing he has ever eaten.

 

*

 

In the morning, Draco manages not to go to the café, which means that this was technically all a success. Instead, he has breakfast at Potter's house. Coffee comes from a big, gleaming silver machine on the counter. It is average. Breakfast, however, is good.

Black cooks it, with Potter at the stove alongside him, giving him advice.

‘Take the eggs off the heat now,’ he hears Potter say in a hurried tone. ‘No, I know they're not cooked yet. There's still heat in the pan, just keep stirring them. Shit. I'm going to be late.’

He's carrying that huge stack of parchment from last night in his arms, and he accepts a slice of toast fed into his mouth by Black.

‘Mmpghh,’ he says to the room at large.

‘Chives? You said chives now, right?’ Black asks, holding the saucepan of eggs and juggling another pan which is sizzling bacon and cherry tomatoes.

‘Creme fraiche,’ Potter says, swallowing. ‘You don’t want them to overcook.’

Black swears and puts down the tongs he’s using to turn the bacon, grabbing the creme fraiche. ‘It’s just eggs,’ he mutters to himself as Potter leans in to peck him on the cheek. ‘How is it this complicated?’

‘It’s not,’ Potter says. ‘But you asked. I’ll be home later this week, alright?’

Draco looks away from the breakfast preparations. Potter and Black are getting too affectionate, as if Potter doesn’t leave to go to Hogwarts _every single week_ anyway. He stares at Lupin instead, who is holding his coffee up close to his mouth, but has his eyes closed and might be asleep. Draco feels much the same.

‘It’s not healthy,’ Draco mutters to him.

Lupin raises his eyebrows without opening his eyes. ‘Hm?’

‘An age difference like that. You're his friend. Why didn't you make Black end it?’

Remus laughs silently, but hard enough that he's shaking all over. ‘Trying to make Sirius do something is the surest way to get the opposite to happen.’

‘So you just go along with it.’

‘You're assuming I've never raised my concerns.’

‘He doesn't listen to you?’

An eye cracks open. ‘This was Harry's choice, Draco. I may have been initially sceptical—I think we all were—but Harry and Sirius have proven as time’s gone by that this is what they want and they are happy together.’

‘But “he's made a choice” doesn't mean anything in a situation like this. You don't just up and decide to shack up with your godfather who’s twice your age. There's—dynamics at play. Young people make bad decisions.’

‘As you'd well know?’

‘I do know, yes.’

Lupin opens his eyes fully and regards him. Draco knows he's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, but he's always been bad at keeping his mouth shut: especially when he's exhausted like this.

But, ‘Sirius may have the maturity level of a twenty-five year old himself,’ is all Lupin ends up saying further on the subject, still in a very low voice.

At the kitchen bench, Potter stops snogging his godfather. ‘I'm off,’ he says firmly, and dashes to the fireplace, holding his stack of essays tightly. ‘Shit. Goodbye. Malfoy, be nice.’

Then he’s gone. Draco shifts in his seat, sniffing the air and craning his neck to see if the eggs are ready.

Black serves everything out with a grand measure of care. Draco notices that he's watching Lupin closely the whole time as he plates out eggs, bacon, steaming tomatoes, hash browns, sausages and toast in front of him, before holding out a large grinder over Lupin’s plate and saying, ‘Cracked pepper?’

Lupin's lips twitch and nods. ‘Thanks. It doesn't need all the pomp and ceremony, Padfoot.’

‘I’d like cracked pepper,’ Draco interrupts.

‘This isn't about you,’ Sirius says, but hands him the grinder. ‘How is it, Moony?’

‘S’good,’ Lupin says with his mouth full of eggs. ‘Much better.’

Black seems to relax and sits down. ‘As good as Harry's?’

‘Just like Harry's,’ Lupin confirms.

‘These are the best fucking eggs I've ever eaten,’ Draco says honestly, and Black looks at him for the first time like he's not a bit of grime on the floor.

‘Really?’

‘Better than house-elfs, even.’

The food at Nico's café has always been an average fare. There's a lot of it, and it's fairly satisfying, but the draw to the place has always been the coffee and the boy, not the cuisine.

Draco shovels away his breakfast and has seconds when Black offers them. The eggs are slightly worse the second time around, without Potter’s guiding hand, but overall it's still delicious and Draco wonders, briefly and for the first time, if maybe he'll be okay like this.

 

*

 

‘I can show you how to make macarons properly if you want,’ Draco offers to Lupin one morning, by text. He has been conversing with Lupin more, over the past few weeks. Granger too. Even Potter, here and there.

There is no real prompt for it, but Lupin is always at home. He is a full time dad, which seems a bit rich to Draco given that he sends his kid off to muggle school and isn’t even teaching him at home. But then, Draco doesn’t exactly work either.

It’s a thing, the preconception that werewolves can’t hold jobs. They may as well do baking clubs instead.

‘This is good,’ Lupin says, leading Draco into his kitchen. ‘We have parent-teacher interviews next week and I want to leave Teddy’s teacher with something nice. She never has a thing to say about his hair changing, she’s a godsend.’

Lupin is wearing a loose t-shirt and when he lifts up his arm to get a mixing bowl from the disorganised cabinet, Draco catches sight of something. A small crescent moon tattoo on the inside of his arm, wobbly and roughly done.

‘What's that?’ he asks.

Lupin glances at the underside of his own arm and chuckles. ‘Stick n’ poke,’ he says. ‘Sirius has one too, a bone.’

‘I've seen it.’

‘We all gave them to one another in school. In our dormitory. We could have done wizarding tattoos and they probably would have come out better, but Sirius was very insistent on the muggle method. In retrospect it was quite unsanitary.’

‘You have a moon,’ Draco accuses, sharply. ‘Why do you do this? Call yourself Moony, put it on your body. Is your name even really Remus Lupin, or did you change it as a joke?’

‘You got me, it's actually Leonard Harbuckle. Don't tell anyone, even Padfoot doesn't know.’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘How can you enjoy it like this?’

‘It's a part of me,’ Lupin replies. ‘And if I get there first, no one can use it against me. Also, I do enjoy it, because the people I care about made it a part of my life I _could_ enjoy.’

Draco cannot understand this, because he cannot understand how Lupin can separate this from how it was done to him. It's unspoken between them, really—but Draco knows how Fenrir Greyback operated. He knows it intimately. The idea that Lupin managed to move past what was done to him—them—and find levity in it when so young (in school!) seems borderline certifiable to Draco.

‘You couldn’t have been a werewolf long,’ he says, flicking his wand to charm a couple of eggs to start separating themselves over the mixing bowl. ‘Before you got that tattoo.’

Lupin glances at him, expression surprised. ‘About as long as you've been one now, I suppose,’ he says.

The eggs hovering in the air fall onto the counter and shatter, splattering yolk and whites everywhere, as a sick feeling of dread spreads through Draco.

‘No,’ he says. ‘That's wrong—’

‘Maybe a little longer?’ Lupin says. ‘I was about five when Greyback got to me.’

‘You were—’

Suddenly Draco can't breathe. He falls forward, catching himself on the edge of the kitchen counter, white knuckled.

‘Draco?’

Memories flood through Draco, Greyback’s blue eyes trained on him in an empty hallway, reaching out to touch. Draco staring over his shoulder at the warm summer day outside, trying not to show fear.

‘I'm sorry,’ he grits out to Lupin. ‘I didn't know.’

‘It was scary for a child,’ Lupin says. ‘But… Draco, are you okay?’

‘I'm fine.’ He's still braced against the counter, eyes squeezed shut against the wash of horror. ‘I don't—I didn't know even _he_ was capable of…’

‘He specialises in children,’ says Lupin bitterly, and it's enough that Draco wants to be sick. ‘Turn them young, raise them to be monsters. You were probably something of an exception to him—’

‘That’s _disgusting,’_ Draco spits out. This is worse. This is _worse_ than what happened to him, and for a moment all that Draco can think—feel—see—is a red torrent of guilt. It isn’t logical, but it doesn’t feel like it can be. ‘I could have stopped it.’  

‘You couldn’t have.’

‘No, _you_ couldn’t. I… it’s my fault I’m like this. What he did to you, you didn’t—you couldn’t—ask for.’

‘You didn’t ask for it either.’

‘I may as well have. I didn’t stop him when he—why would I think he’d stop before he turned me?’

There is a long moment of silence and Draco, unsure why Lupin has gone quiet, finally opens his eyes. He turns to look at him.

Lupin’s face is pale in horror. It is a look of horror that quite possibly matches Draco’s own.

‘Oh no,’ Lupin says faintly. ‘No, Draco. He didn't—not to me. It's not what you think.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I didn't know that happened to you either.’

Draco says nothing.

‘He did it for control,’ Lupin continues, stiltedly. ‘That's why he attacked me. To control my family, my father. It was all about power to him. He… for both of us. It was his way of exerting influence over things he wanted in his power.’

‘Yes.’ Draco frowns. ‘I thought he was under my control. I thought I was the one who… It doesn't matter.’ Deliberately, Draco relaxes his grip on the counter, straightens up. He breathes in through his nose. ‘I broke the eggs,’ he says unnecessarily. With a wave of his wand, the mess is gone.

He feels cold all through, but there's a look of understanding in Lupin's eyes that stings in a way that feels like alcohol on a wound.

Lupin says, ‘There are lots of us. Too many. You have an extended family who know what you've gone through. You know that, right?’

But that's not true. Greyback always said it himself: that Draco was different. Special.

‘None of them are the same as me,’ Draco replies. They were victims. They were attacked. They were helpless.

‘Does that matter?’

Draco considers it. ‘Yes,’ he decides finally.

On his second batch, Lupin gets the macarons right. The first time, Draco pops to the loo for two minutes and comes back to discover that they were removed from the oven to rotate, and within moments the shells have deflated. But the second batch come out perfectly, and they stand at the counter for a long while, filling in the cream.

‘That’s much better,’ Lupin says when they are done, pleased. ‘Thank you, Draco.’

Draco smiles tightly. ‘My pleasure,’ he replies, not wholly untruthfully. ‘You’re right, I suppose. We need to help each other.’ And then, because Remus is giving him a curious look: ‘If you struggle at things as straightforward as putting something into an oven without turning it into a disaster, anyway. Honestly now.’

But he thinks about Lupin’s words later, the question lingering in the back of his mind. Does it matter? Does it matter that their experiences were not the same, that they can’t feel the same way about it in retrospect? He doesn’t like to think about _the others_ that way, as a community. There are other werewolves, and then there is him.

That’s the way it’s always been, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: you may notice that this fic is no longer listed as "Chapter 12/?", and I've managed to put an actual number of chapters on there, which is nice, because it means that I've finally managed to finish off the draft, and I know how long it actually is!
> 
> Now, you may be asking, "How the hell does he manage to stretch this out for another ten godforsaken chapters?" and the answer is, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	13. Chapter 13

The first time Draco sees Nico again, Nico doesn't notice him at all. The late afternoon sun is lowering in the sky. Draco is walking, a stealthy trip to Knockturn Alley for wolfsbane ingredients having taken up most of his day. It is a warm and pleasant afternoon so he is wandering home —taking a long route, as has become habit, to avoid passing the café. He hates this, the hyperawareness of his surroundings, the mingled unease and hope. 

This time, the detour is pointless. Draco’s stomach flips the moment he catches sight of him; taller than most people on the street, thick curls pulled up away from his face. He is heading towards the train station, almost certainly having just finished a shift at work. Walking on the opposite side of the street, facing away, he doesn’t catch sight of Draco—who has frozen in his step.

Nico is wearing headphones. Large ones: retro, Draco thinks? He’s unsure of the nomenclature. Anyway, they’re just another barrier, really; another reason Nico isn’t going to see his ex standing several feet away, looking struck. Nico is unlikely to notice much, he doesn’t look like he’s paying attention to where he’s going or what he’s doing except for the fact that he’s mouthing along to the music blasting in his ears and, Draco hates to say it, bopping along. 

He’s bopping along. Happy people bop. Nico is bopping, therefore Nico is happy, and it stabs Draco right in the stomach even though he should have expected it. 

Of course he is happy. In the idle moments Draco has let himself wonder, he's assumed that Nico would be carrying on. He wants to think that maybe he regrets… something. That at least part of him would want to take him back.  

A little bit, just a bit, Draco wants to lob a stinging hex in Nico's direction. Just for dancing on a bright summer day. He wouldn't know it came from Draco, it wouldn't be enough for that. Just a light little stab of pain, written off as muscle strain or a lingering bruise. 

Draco buries his hands in his pockets and balls them into fists. He watches Nico off around the corner before turning and walking on. 

 

*

 

After much closer to six weeks than three, Draco finally gets his pass to the Records office by morning owl. It is a shiny brass card, with a seemingly random pattern of tiny holes clustered at one side and his name engraved into the upper left corner. 

Draco pockets it and finishes his breakfast. Melissa is on the table next to him and he talks to—at—her occasionally as he eats. Then, since he has absolutely nothing else on, goes straight to the Ministry. 

Experience has led him to expect that it will be frustrating, that he'll have to show this card to six different wizards and get thoroughly sniffed out by a security crup. But he does not, in fact, really have to talk to anyone. He arrives on the Public and Family Records floor, steps into the pristine, open room and looks around. There is a someone at the counter, so Draco approaches and pulls out his card. 

‘I have this,’ he announces. 

The wizard points at a tall door a few feet away that seems to lead to the archives. ‘Just pop it in the card reader,’ he says. ‘Come and go as you please, you just can't bring any of the originals back out through the door. You can make duplicates for your own purposes, though.’

Draco raises an eyebrow, simply because it's accommodating and he's a bit suspicious of that now, but approaches the door. It is stained glass with copper inlays, beautiful and obscuring, so that Draco can only make out the vague shadows of the archive beyond. There is a small brass machine on the white wall next to the door. Like the card Draco has in his hand, it is burnished and covered in small pinprick dots, almost like braille. 

Draco puts his card into the machine, hears a whirring sound, the door click open, and that's it. He takes the card back and steps into the archives. 

Every time Draco has come here prior to this, it's been to request a document, never to find one of the needles in the haystacks himself. The archives are a bit gloomier than the front office, older looking and dim. A long table down the centre of the room, stretching off into what seems like an impossible distance. Walls lined with little pigeon holes like honeycomb cells, filled with scrolls of parchment or rolls and rolls of microfiche. In little nooks in gaps in the walls are screens for scanning through the microfiche, some already busily spooling and flashing images lightning fast, unattended. He seems to be alone. 

He wants to find a Register of Deaths, he thinks. He knows Melissa died in 1951, maybe ‘52. He’ll only have to go through a year’s worth of records, once he finds what he's after. The Prophet has obituaries on file, which will be useful once he has a full name and a date—but he'll start with the Register.

It is not too hard to find. Everything is neatly labeled and prominent and he finds the long scrolls in a collection of pigeon holes, clearly placed on the wall. There is a scroll for each decade, tabled up and filled with endless, often illegible handwriting. 

The first entry in his chosen register says: 

_ 1950 - Barncuncle - Killian - Ottery St Catchpole - 11th June - Fell from a broomstick into a thicket of Devil's Snare. _

That's a way to go, he muses. He glances at the next entry. The name is either Julia or Tulio. Whoever they were, they died trying to fetch dragon eggs for their breakfast. Foolish. 

He spends a lot of time scanning down the list, pausing at any name that looks like it might be Melissa—catching himself on several Melvins on the way. The list is very interesting: sometimes curious, sometimes sad, often darkly entertaining. 

It is not, however, enlightening. He casts a spell on the pages to highlight Melissa's name and although there are a few, none of them have a surname beginning with L, and all were over sixty years old when they died. He doesn't give up, checking and double checking the scroll several times all the way down into 1955 before huffing and going to fetch the births record for 1928. At least  _ that  _ he can be sure of. 

But Melissa is not present in that register either. It takes several hours of searching before Draco is forced to resign himself to the fact she's just simply not there. He keeps looking, scanning over and over, justifying that some of these warlocks had script so bad that ‘Melissa’ could very easily just be a shapeless scribble on the page, unregistered by his charm. But there is nothing. He frowns. 

Maybe she told him the wrong year? She’s been trapped as a doll for quite a few decades now, it can’t be good for the ol’ noggin. So Draco searches, less than patiently, a handful of years backward, a handful of years forward and, desperate, through a long register of Hogwarts graduates, dragging his wand tip down yards and yards of faded old parchment. 

He spends hours in the archive. Occasionally, people come and go. None spend quite as long as him, not today, although one old wizard settles down at a point a ways down the impossibly long table, his long nose buried in a musty old book, turning pages impossibly slowly with patience that has long since left Draco. The others who come through find what they’re looking for quickly, working quietly and making copies, before leaving. This frustrates Draco even more. 

When the place closes at four in the afternoon, Draco is relieved at the excuse to give up—and somewhat annoyed at being forced to leave before finding what he was after. He apparates home with a strain in his neck from spending hours bent over musty old records and levels a death glare at Melissa herself. 

‘You couldn’t give me something else to work with, could you?’ he huffs at the doll, throwing himself down on the chair. ‘No, you had to be a bloody mystery. Well, good for you.’ He sneezes, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. ‘I get allergies with dusty old parchment, you know.’ 

Melissa seems either apologetic or completely uncontrite, it’s hard to tell. 

Draco stares at her. 

She stares, glassy eyed, back. With a slow, ominous creak, her head tilts to the side, as though regarding him. 

Draco, who has never seen Melissa move so much as an eyelash before, nearly jumps out of his skin. 

But nothing else happens.

 

*

 

However, over the next week or so, Melissa starts to act out. Or rather: she isn't attempting to scare Draco (although she frequently does so regardless), or to rebel against him. As far as he can tell, she just wants—desperately now, it seems—to be  _ heard.  _

It starts with the wireless crackling into life in the middle of the night, startling Draco out of sleep with the sound of harsh, angry static and clips of stations, cycling through them and settling on none. She has never done this before. She’s always been a considerate enough, ah, roommate. She waits until Draco is up before turning anything on, and she keeps volume levels reasonable. 

‘What is this?’ Draco asks, stumbling out into the living room, half awake and wearing only his briefs. The wireless catches on snippets of songs, news channels, but mostly just screeches radio static at him, almost painfully loud. He puts one hand to his ear and covers his other ear with his shoulder, heart pounding in his chest at the sudden alarm of all this. He reaches out and turns off the wireless. ‘Melissa, you’ll wake the neighbours.’ 

She turns the wireless back on, a sudden stab of painful feedback that causes Draco to double over. Then, almost immediately, silence again. Deep, resounding silence.

Blinking and still covering his ears, Draco straightens and looks at her, porcelain, still and silent. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ he says. 

He does, and nothing happens for the rest of the night. But when he rises in the morning, it is to a living room coated in heavy grey dust, as though left centuries to age. Nothing has been moved, and it can be cleaned with a simple spell—but it is still a cry, and Draco kneels in front of Melissa cautiously, concerned. 

‘I’m trying,’ he tells her. ‘Why are you doing this  _ now?’  _

 

*

 

Two full moons in a row, Draco has spent the night with Lupin, Black and (sort of) Potter. He probably wouldn’t stick with it, usually, but it’s been… nice. He still feels like an intruder, which is why he continues to leave Lupin and Black to it at least half the time, choosing instead to harass Potter. Harassing Potter is easy, natural and quite fun—and Potter, for his part, doesn’t seem to particularly mind. 

Overall, it is a good replacement for spending the night alone and it’s still helpful to have somewhere to be in the morning that isn’t the café. And Draco think, he  _ thinks, _ he has been improving. He has been listening more. He has been thinking before he speaks and he feels like he is learning. He doesn’t know if he’s healing or changing or self-actualizing or whatever. It all feels too unsteady for that, too tied up with heartache and loneliness and the skepticism that you can become a better person from books and kind words alone. 

But this, the morning after his second full moon into this patented New Draco™, while dressing sluggishly following his painful transformation back into a person, he says: ‘Would you two like to go get breakfast? On me.’ 

Lupin and Black both pause and look at Draco—Lupin, curiously, and Black suspiciously. 

‘Why?’ Lupin asks. 

‘I…’ Draco scratches his neck, scowling. ‘I want to see him again, I think, and I’m too much of a coward to go alone.’ 

It is a raw and honest answer and possibly a stupid idea. He knows it’s going to hurt, however it plays out. But he needs to see. He can’t keep walking roundabout ways back to his flat and feeling on high alert every time he steps out of his house just on the  _ off chance _ that he might catch a glimpse of Nico. He needs to put it on his terms. 

Lupin glances at Black and shrugs. ‘Save you cooking,’ he says fairly. 

Black looks even more suspicious. ‘You  _ do  _ like my breakfasts, right?’ he asks. 

‘I really do,’ Lupin assures him. 

They walk in the bright morning sunshine to the café, the four of them: four, because Black would not leave without waking up Potter and dragging him, half-asleep and disgruntled, out of the house to come along. 

‘It’s my day off,’ Potter keeps grumbling as they wander the fair distance down towards Covent Garden. ‘Why are you dragging me on a hike at eight in the morning on my _ day off?’ _

Draco, although very bleary himself, hides his smirk from Potter and replies, ‘It’s not a hike, it’s moral support.’ 

‘I don’t want to morally support you,’ Potter says. ‘I want to be in bed.’ He rubs his face harshly and leans closer to Black, who has a casual arm around him. ‘I know we can’t apparate, but can’t we at least get the bus?’ 

‘I will throw up on a bus,’ Lupin says frankly, which echoes Draco’s own feelings. The fresh air is nice, though. It feels good, actually, to be out and moving, despite the aching feeling still set deep under his skin. 

They reach the café after about an hour—by which point Potter has woken up significantly and actually become a bit too cheerful, and Draco, by comparison, has kind of hit his limit for the day and spiralled back down into tired anxiousness. 

He pauses outside the café, out of sight, and crosses his arms. He takes a deep breath. 

‘Hey, you good?’ Potter asks, seeing his (pale, sickly) expression. 

‘I’m fine,’ Draco insists. He grits his teeth. ‘It will be better to get it over with. Better than… not.’ 

The bell chimes cheerfully as they walk into the café, as it always does. It’s mostly quiet within, the tables and benches scattered with people, but no one waiting to be served. Draco can feel the nerves inside him fluttering like a rattling cage full of doxies—and when he sees Nico standing at the counter, staring at him with a frozen look on his face, it’s like the doxies grab onto his ribcage and start kicking everywhere inside his chest, intent on getting out. 

It is impossible to read Nico’s expression. His lips are parted in surprise and his eyes have gone wide, but Draco cannot tell, for the life of him, what his reaction is beyond that. The walk up toward the counter feels painfully stretched out and exposed and kind of like he’s walking up to, well, an unconvinced Hippogriff. Unreadable, cautious and entirely capable of ripping Draco’s heart out through his chest (intentional or not). 

‘Hey guys,’ Nico says to all of them with a kind of bright cheer that rings hollow to Draco’s trained ear. ‘Hey, Remus! What can I get you all?’ 

Draco’s stomach drops quickly and sickeningly. Nico is plainly avoiding even looking directly at him, right now, but he’s got a customer service smile on and his customer service voice on, and they are cold and isolating. Draco feels the other three cast him a quick, awkward glance, and looks at the ground. 

Lupin orders first, a huge fry up, and Black follows. Potter, blessedly, spends a really, really long time looking at croissants in the front counter and being indecisive, which saves Draco from having to speak—he maybe never wants to speak again. He actually suspects that Potter is being frustratingly wishy-washy on purpose, because he catches him casting occasional glances at Draco out of the corner of his eye as he hum and haws his way through, ‘A cheese and tomato croissant. No, cheese and ham. No, tomato. No, actually—’ 

‘We can do ham, cheese  _ and  _ tomato,’ Nico tells him. ‘If that helps.’ 

‘Er, maybe.’ Potter squints at the display, bites his lip and says, ‘You know what? Gimme a scone with jam and cream.’

‘Will do,’ Nico says lightly and looks, hesitantly, at Draco. There is a moment of deep, uncomfortable silence as Nico pauses and clears his throat and Draco, trying desperately not to look away, fights to keep his chin high. ‘The usual?’ 

‘Yeah, thanks,’ Draco says. 

Nico nods. ‘Alright, thanks guys, take a seat and I’ll bring them out.’ 

At the table, Draco makes sure that Black, being the tallest, is positioned between him and Nico to block himself from sight, and then buries his face in his hands and moans. 

Potter is looking back over his shoulder. ‘He is kinda fit, I guess,’ he says fairly. 

‘Yes, well aware of that. Thank you, Potter,’ Draco mumbles. 

‘Not what I was picturing at all, though, to be honest. The way you speak about him makes him sound like an Adonis, but he’s kinda normal. I thought you’d go for more classically handsome, you know?’

‘I went for you, didn’t I?’ Draco says snidely, prompting a look of mild confusion from Potter and then, after a moment’s hesitation, an offended,  _ ‘Hey!’  _

The meal is quiet and uncomfortable. The others talk, and Draco eats, averting his eyes and keeping his head down. Nico doesn’t bring out the coffees or the food—someone else does, and it only barely has ever registered to Draco that anyone else works here in the first place. 

But when they are standing up to leave, Nico waves him over with a quick, ‘Oy, Draco. C’mere.’

‘Go,’ Draco mutters to the others. ‘I’ll see you next month, I guess.’ When they’re out the door, he wanders over to Nico, feeling nervous. ‘Hey.’ 

‘How’s it going?’ Nico asks. 

Draco thinks about it. ‘Good,’ he says eventually and, to his own surprise, honestly. ‘How are you?’

‘Same old.’ Nico shrugs. ‘To be honest, didn’t expect to see you coming in here.’

‘Old habits die hard, I figure.’

‘Should’ve gone with “can’t teach an old dog new tricks” there, mate.’

Draco’s lip twitches and breaks into a small smile which he quickly fights back. 

Nico’s voice takes on a more serious tone. ‘But I meant what I said when, well. That you can. Come here. Didn’t mean to be weird about it, sorry.’ 

‘Fine,’ Draco says. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I don’t care.’

Nico shifts. ‘Alright, well. That’s all I—’ 

‘I have something I want to say,’ Draco interrupts. ‘Nothing you need to respond to. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. But I want to tell you that I thought about the things you said and you were right. I was a tosser and I don’t think I knew exactly how. I’m still working on it, to be honest. But I think there are a lot of things that I took as givens and just the way the world works that, well, aren’t. About magic, about privilege and things like that. And I am trying to do better, because what you said… I realised that I’ve been thoughtless and kinda shitty. To quite a lot of people, not just you. For a long time. Anyway, thought you should know. You said to tell you if anything changed, and it has. Or, is? I dunno.’

With a curious look, Nico does a hesitant thumbs up. At Draco’s dry look, he says, ‘You did tell me not to say anything.’ 

‘You’re right,’ Draco says. ‘I’ll take a page from your book.’ And with both hands, he gives Nico a few quick finger guns  _ (pew-pew-pew) _ and exits the café. 

He hears, from behind him, Nico laugh. 

Draco decides, ultimately, that he was right to go to the café. He feels better, afterwards: stops looking over his shoulder whenever he’s outside, stops being almost paranoid about where he’s going and what route he is taking. He stops being afraid of seeing him, of feeling like he’s not ready. It feels like the closing of a chapter of a book, a resolution—but with the knowledge that there is more waiting for when he turns the page. 


	14. Chapter 14

Which means, the next question is what _more_ means. Draco knows what _he_ wants, that isn’t in question. But he also knows that it is not for him to push for Nico to take him back. He has opened a door, broken the silence between them—as the dumped party, that’s probably all he can reasonably do. From here, he can only let Nico reach out to him.

And he does. Slowly, just a few texts here and there. Friendly messages that don’t say much at all but spark a light inside of Draco every time. He generally responds quickly, openly—and spends an uncomfortable amount of time wondering when and whether Nico will get back to him, checking his phone incessantly. Nico’s responses are variable—sometimes short one word quips, but sometimes long chats late into the night which remind Draco, painfully, of their early days of getting to know one another. In late May, one message is a casual invitation to go to Nico’s place and watch Eurovision with a bunch of his friends. Draco does not attend, although he kind of wants to. More than just Nico, he misses Em and Paulie and their Hollyoaks evenings. He even misses that muggle house, weird and crowded and always full of people. But he has book club with Granger that particular evening, and that seems like enough reason not to put himself in a precarious situation—all he really knows about the Eurovision party is that there is a drinking game, and mixing Nico and him and copious amounts of alcohol seems like a bad plan right now.

One of the texts, a week or so after that, comes completely out of the blue and sends Draco into a spiral of panic, confusion and heart-thudding hope. The message says, simply: _What do you think this is?_

And Draco goes cold. He reads the message, locks his phone, pushes it across the table, presses a hand to his mouth and stares at it.

_What do you think this is?_

Is it an accusation? An invitation? Should he say these are just friendly texts shared between acquaintances? Should he say that he wants _this_ to be more, every time, always? Should he tell the truth and admit that he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know,_ and it’s whatever Nico will give him. Is that desperate? Would it scare him away? What is the right way to respond to this?  

Blood like ice, Draco does not reply for hours. He thinks it over, telling himself to be cautious, deliberate. To respond in an open yet detached way and let Nico take the next step, clarify himself. Finally, much later in the afternoon, his phone buzzes again and he opens up the message, ready to respond with a simple question, or—

It is another message from Nico. It is a blurry picture taken at night, outdoors and out of the city. There is a shadowy figure, pixelated and difficult to make out, but the creature’s body is short, it’s neck and head long and bulbous, and the glint of light from the moon overhead is catching on its eyes, making them reflect back into the camera.

Draco breathes out a laugh, half-relieved and half-disappointed. _‘That looks like a mooncalf,’_ he sends back.

 _‘Shit did you only just get the picture?’_ Nico responds, several moments later. _‘MMS is so bad, fuck. What’s a mooncalf? Why does it’s head look like a dick?’_

Draco responds, but puts his phone away and on silent after that. If this is what more is, it would be wise to be cautious, patient—because he knows Nico, and Nico can easily walk on his heart in the guise of easiness, and it’s easy not to guard against that.

 

*

 

Early in the morning on June 4th (and Draco notes the date because it’s the day before his birthday) Melissa interrupts his night _again,_ and this time it is the worst it has ever been. The wireless screeches at full volume and no matter what Draco does—turning down the volume, turning it off, vanishing it completely—the sound will not stop. There are no words to it, nothing but ringing, agonising _noise._ But that isn’t enough—the moment Draco steps into the living room, all the lights in the house turn on. The sudden harsh brightness is blinding and Draco squeezes his eyes shut even as he slams his hands over his ears and tries to stop the screeching.

Squinting against the brightness, Draco has his wand out and is blocking out as much sound as he can when the lights start to flicker. The curtains close themselves across the windows of their own accord and then the lights go off again, all of them, and for a moment—a long, dark moment—the room is plunged into inky blackness.

‘Lumos,’ Draco shouts over the ringing in his ears. And when light fills the room again, there is writing on the wall where the vanished wireless sat before and it just says:

_YOU ARE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE_

 

*

 

‘Granger,’ Draco greets, poking his head into her office. ‘How would you feel about helping me with some research?’

She doesn’t look up from whatever she’s working on. Probably something very important. ‘Already been doing a lot of that lately, Malfoy.’

Draco didn’t manage to get back to sleep after being woken up at two in the morning by Melissa’s loud, spooky nonsense. As soon as the day broke properly he dressed and left for the Ministry—initially just intending on another stint in the Records office. But after a few hours there and no result, he is here, asking for help: because that’s one of those things Granger and her lot encourage. Offering and asking for help when needed.

‘This is fun research,’ he says, encouragingly. ‘Probably, for you. I’ve hit a dead end so I’m a bit over it.’

She glances up. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember the spooky doll I told you about?’

 

*

 

Granger turns Melissa over in her hands, curiously. ‘And you’re saying she’s haunted? That’s not possible.’

‘Yeah, I’m well aware. But here she is. It’s not just a prank or a charm or something, I can tell. It’s hard to explain, but she has a personality. I spoke to her with an Ouija board. She can answer questions and everything.’

‘So why haven’t you just asked her who she was?’

Draco frowns and scrunches up his nose. ‘Because it’s scary. She makes things bleed and does all this creepy stuff and I don’t like it.’

Granger laughs under her breath. ‘But you live with her?’

‘Yeah, well, she’s really good most of the time. We’ve clicked. I’m just easily spooked by objects oozing blood and things moving on their own. That’s not her fault, I won’t hold it against her.’

‘How mature of you,’ Granger comments, examining Melissa’s clothes closely and turning her upside-down to check for any markings. Then she sits Melissa down again and pulls out her wand, summoning what Draco recognises as a laptop computer from the air. She sits down and opens it up, patting the seat for Draco to sit down next to her.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

‘Looking her up,’ Granger says. ‘The doll, that is.’

‘You realise I’m not actually interested in the history of the doll itself, right?’ Draco drawls. ‘It’s the tortured soul trapped inside it I’m concerned about.’

Granger shakes her head. ‘Well, she’s obviously haunting this particular doll for a reason, don’t you think?’

‘Huh, maybe,’ Draco says, unconvinced. He watches as Granger scrolls through slowly loading images from various doll collectors catalogues: it takes quite a long time, frustratingly long—muggles make a _lot_ of toys—but eventually:

‘There she is!’ Draco says, leaning in over her shoulder and poking the screen. Granger knocks his hand away, but clicks through to the page, bringing up the doll.

‘These were released in 1951, does that sound right?’ Granger asks. ‘It certainly looks like her.’

‘Yeah, that’s the same year she died,’ Draco says. ‘Good choice Melissa, haunting something brand new. Very sensible.’ He glances at Granger. ‘This is why we get along so well, Melissa knows value.’

‘And here’s your problem,’ Granger continues, ignoring him. ‘She’s a Madame Alexander. That’s an American company, look. She’s probably not in any of the British records because she’s not a British witch.’

Draco tilts his head back, flopping onto the chair, feeling foolish. ‘Oh well, when you put it like _that.’_

‘The Department of Public and Family Records will be happy to get you the records you need, you’ll just have to put in a special request and it might take a little while.’ Granger closes the laptop. ‘Draco, can you please tell me a little bit more about how Melissa came to you?’

‘I told you, antiquing. Nothing too exciting. Sometimes I go to muggle auction houses and grab anything that seems cool or like it might have belonged to wizards at some point. I’m a simple man, Granger. I like three things: interesting antiques, quaint country houses, and a nice farmers market.’

Granger blinks several times at him.

‘Oh, and a good game of Quidditch,’ Draco adds. ‘Because I am still a little bit masc.’

Ignoring this, Granger asks, ‘How long have you had her?’

Draco thinks. ‘Since about October last year?’

‘Hm.’ Granger looks uncomfortable. ‘So, I’m assuming you don’t have any real paperwork on her, then? I know you are careful about your collection of dark objects, but it doesn’t sound like you ever got anything for her…’

‘No, of course not. Because she’s not a dark object.’

‘You wouldn’t describe the writing in blood and screeching radio static as “dark”?’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘The _intent_ behind it isn’t dark.’

‘I’m not sure the Ministry would see it that way.’

‘Well you won’t tell on me, because you’re not a snitch, are you Granger?’ Draco pauses, his eyes going wide. ‘Oh no, wait, of course you’re a snitch—’

‘Oh, shut up Malfoy. I'm asking because I can only think of one type of magical object that might behave the way she does, and it's definitely dark. About as dark as they come, really.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘You said it yourself. A tortured soul trapped inside a haunted doll. Or, maybe a fragment of a soul, anyway.’

With a snort. ‘You think Melissa is a _horcrux?’_

‘Well, why not?’

‘Because horcruxes are evil. They're corrupting, dark objects. You have you kill to make them. You’re accusing Melissa of being a murderer.’

‘Horcruxes can be very good at seeming innocent, especially when they get close to someone. Look at Riddle’s diary, it would trick people into trusting it. Maybe Melissa is doing the same to you.’

‘And then that diary would get people to go kill chickens and play with big snakes or whatever. What has Melissa done? In the time I've had her, I've just had a relatively fulfilling relationship with a muggle and worked on bettering myself as a human being. So sinister!’

Granger frowns. ‘No blackout periods?’

‘None. Well, besides being blackout drunk the night I got her and maybe tucking her into bed.’

‘This doesn't prove she's not a horcrux,’ she says insistently. ‘Harry was one and had no idea. Think about it, Draco. Ghosts can't possess objects, we know this. But what can? Fragments of a soul. She'd be preserved as the version of herself from when she made it. Horcruxes can do all kinds of crazy things, the blood on the walls would make sense. They're all different. And they tend to connect with people, they have a draw. You're awfully fond of her, you don't think it's a little strange?’

‘I'm just very lonely,’ Draco says defensively.

‘Well that's quite sad and all, but it doesn't change anything. In fact, it would just make you more vulnerable, probably.’ She rubs her temple. ‘I won't tell the Ministry. Not yet, not until we know more.’

‘Good, because there's nothing to tell them.’

‘But I will tell Harry.’

‘What, why? So he can commune with her, one horcrux to another? She's not _evil.’_

‘Be that as it may, it can't hurt to be cautious. I would definitely look into finding out who she was, if I were you.’ With a glance at her watch, Granger says, ‘I best be off. Keep in touch about her though, won't you? I'm sure Harry will come by at some point with something to say.’

‘Yes, fine, fine—whatever.’

She leaves, and Draco gives Melissa a once over with slightly narrowed eyes. ‘You might be a horcrux,’ he tells her, ‘but that's okay. It's who you are now that matters, and you're my friend and I trust you. And I'll work out who you were, for real this time.’

Melissa, blissfully, goes mostly quiet and peaceful again after that.

 

*

 

Draco gets up on his twenty-fifth birthday feeling moody. It's a lovely day, almost always is. Bright and sunny and fairly warm. But he rightly expects very little from birthdays. The worst was probably the one spent in house arrest a month following the end of the war. But in honestly, each one since hasn’t felt much different. Birthdays now mean a day spent alone until a quiet dinner with mother and father.

They have plans already, to go to a nice wizarding restaurant close to the Ministry. Reservations are for 7pm. Until then, it's just another day.

Draco breathes out. He used to love his birthday. It was a day he had an excuse to make all about him, it was wonderful.

He goes to the Records office and puts his order in for a copy a register of all American witches and wizards born in nineteen twenty-eight.

‘State?’ the witch at the reception asks, her quill busily filling out a form next to her.

‘No idea,’ Draco says. ‘All of them?’

‘That's a lot of registers,’ she replies. ‘Are you sure you can't narrow it down?’

He tells her he can't. She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and puts through the order to their MACUSA equivalent, vanishing the parchment in a puff of blue smoke. There's a whirring sound from one of the pigeon holes behind her. Within seconds, out pops a neatly rolled scroll of parchment. Followed by another. Followed by another. Followed by forty five more, all tumbling out of the cavity in a torrent into a pile on the floor which the witch hovers into the air with a flick of her wand and gives to Draco, who takes them clumsily in his arms.

He can't see her anymore. His vision is obscured by parchment dotted in very, very American looking printed logos, state by state.  

‘I'll go make copies of these,’ he says, muffled, and shuffles off towards the long table in the archive. It takes an annoyingly long time to charm duplicates of each register. He shrinks them one by one to make them easier to carry home, filling up a folder he brought with him, and when he’s done he stacks up the originals again and brings them all back to the front desk.

It’s a quiet way to spend a birthday, trawling through 1920s birth records for forty-eight states with no idea where to start. He uses Melissa as a paperweight, setting her down on top of his stack of duplicates to stop them fluttering off the table in the warm breeze from the open window, and says to her, ‘Feel free to chime in at any time if I’m getting close.’

In contrast to his last concentrated effort, scouring the registers is significantly more productive for finding potential Melissas. He finds a Melissa Lesatz in Maine, a Melissa Lraise in Oregon, and a Melissa Lioncourt in West Virginia. All born in the same year, and all, as far as he can tell, half-blood witches.

Melissa, the doll, does not give any indication one way or the other. But that’s fine. He has it narrowed down to three people, that’s a good start.

Standing, Draco packs up the research and goes to get dressed for dinner. In contrast to his usual mode of dress these days, it feels stifling to dress himself in crisp, full bodied robes, stiff and high collared.

But later, at the restaurant, the champagne is delicious and Draco pours himself another glass, sipping at it while he eats. He decides it’s nice to be out with his parents, after all. He can relax with them. He doesn’t have to worry about monitoring his words. Having spent far too much of his time as of late with people like Granger and Lupin, it’s a good reprieve to have a nice, easy dinner and a few glasses of wine without having to feel like one wrong step or misspoken sentence will shatter his already fragile and (hopefully) earned goodwill.

Conversation flows mostly easily as it always has. Draco is well practiced at sidestepping certain subjects, and is open and honest about as much of his life as he can be. He talks about his frustrations with the Department of Public and Family Records—although leaves exactly what he’s researching ambiguous.

‘It was over five weeks,’ Draco says, draining his glass. There’s a possibility he is drinking a little too quickly this evening: he’s on his third glass and they’ve only just finished their entrées, but who cares? It’s his birthday. ‘Five weeks to get an access card and then literally twenty seconds to get an entire forty-eight states worth of records from MACUSA.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Lucius says. ‘I’ve been trying to order an artefact in from the United States and it’s been months of trying to get around their ridiculous import laws. I suppose their systems are there, and if you already had the card…’

‘They have open access policies on most magical congress records,’ Narcissa says mildly. ‘Unlike here. Whether or not you think that’s a good thing is another question.’

‘And yet I can’t get a simple, small, _legal_ object sent by an owl internationally,’ Lucius grouses, and Draco notices that his mother is shaking her head fondly: it’s clearly not the first time that she’s heard this particular complaint. ‘I might have to portkey over there myself.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Narcissa says. ‘It’ll take twice as long to get approved to travel out of the country.’

Lucius scowls. ‘Just as well, I suppose. Terrible place.’

Draco tops up his glass again. ‘Oh yes, father, do tell us again about how awful America is and the terrible education standards of Ilvermorny.’

Narcissa chuckles into her glass. Lucius also smirks slightly, shaking his head. ‘Is this still a sore spot, Draco?’

‘Not at all, why would it be?’

‘You knew doing a year over there was out of the question—’

‘It was your suggestion that I transfer to Durmstrang,’ Draco argues. ‘I only suggested Ilvermorny because I didn’t speak Swedish or Norwegian, or whatever it is they teach in up there. It would have been pointless.’

‘The _point_ of transferring you to Durmstrang would have been to have you at a pureblood school. A point completely undermined if we had sent you halfway across the world to attend a school _co-founded_ by a muggle.’ Lucius takes a long drink of wine. ‘Besides, beyond the school itself, it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to have spent time over there. There’s no _history_ to magic in the Americas. Before muggles finally got their act together and sussed out how boats worked, wizards over there didn’t even use wands. Imagine that, a whole magical community had to be shown how to use a wand by a muggle and his blood-traitor witch wife. Completely uncivilised.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ Draco replies without thinking, lowering his glass. ‘There’s nothing inherently superior about using a wand to perform magic, it’s just the convention we use in Europe—’

Noticing that his mother and father have both gone still, Draco cuts himself off. Narcissa has a wine glass halfway to her mouth, and Lucius’ brows are furrowed, his eyes flickering across the table to meet his wife’s.

‘It’s just colonialism,’ Draco adds, because he’s been reading about this lately, and he is tipsy. ‘I mean, that we prioritize and develop certain types of magic, and say they’re more cultured or civilised for arbitrary reasons. Charms require complex wand-work, therefore Charms are considered more sophisticated magic than potion making, which doesn’t.’ He takes another drink and mutters, because he loves potions a lot more than charms, ‘Which obviously isn’t true, there’s nothing more sophisticated than potion brewing.’

‘Darling,’ Narcissa says. ‘Where is this coming from?’

‘Hm?’ Draco helps himself to a piece of bread from the basket at the centre of the table, tearing off a piece and dipping it in seasoned olive oil. ‘Oh, and besides, just because there wasn’t a wizarding school in the Americas prior to Ilvermorny doesn’t mean Native American witches and wizards had to be _shown how to use magic._ That’s just patently untrue. There have been global connections between wizarding communities a lot longer than muggle colonial expansion.'

‘I knew he was still upset about not getting to go to that disgraceful school,’ Lucius says to Narcissa. ‘Draco, honestly. You know wands channel magic with much more precision. That's just a fact.’

‘No, what I'm saying is that certain schools of magic favour wandwork and precision. But others don't. You don't need a wand for divination, potion making, incantation of runes—hell, even working with magical creatures.’

Narcissa looks pale. ‘You're not thinking of going into dragon rearing are you?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Those are all lesser types of magic,’ Lucius insists. ‘They're common. They're not real wizardry.’

Draco scoffs. ‘Of course they are. We regard them as soft magic, easy magic—but they’re not and it's not as though that was always the way they were seen. In fact, once upon a time divination was regarded as the most sophisticated type of magic you could do. What changed?’

‘We progressed,’ Lucius says dryly.

‘No. We needed to justify why we were better than wizards we saw as lesser, so we clung to differences—wands—and decided that that meant that wands were a mark of civilization, evidence we were more developed. Therefore magic that relied on wands was also more developed.’ He is regurgitating, Draco knows this. He is regurgitating his discussions with Granger and some of the books she loaned him. It's a hard life-long habit to break, recapitulating information fed to you—but he feels reasonably confident that this is correct.

‘Draco,’ Lucius drawls. ‘I know you've been throwing our money at _causes_ for years now. Is this the sort of nonsense our gold has been going towards?’

‘What?’ Draco starts, spluttering on yet another mouthful of wine. He laughs. ‘You know exactly where all that money goes, none of it is secret. I suppose the restructuring of the History of Magic curriculum is related, but—’

‘You've been very discerning about what you perform support of,’ Lucius says. ‘We've been proud of you, it's been good for the family's reputation.’

‘Exactly—’

‘We didn't think you _believed_ any of that sort of rubbish, dear,’ Narcissa says.

Draco rubs his forehead. ‘So you're proud of me for supporting philanthropic causes, but only if I’m insincere about it?’

'When you put it like that, it sounds two-faced,’ Lucius says with disapproval.

‘And is that an endorsement, or…?’

Narcissa puts her hand on his arm when Draco reaches for the bottle to top up his glass again. ‘Calm down,’ she says. ‘It's your birthday, let's not discuss politics.’

‘I wasn't,’ Draco objects. ‘It was father who made it political—’

‘I think it's time for a break from champagne,’ his mother adds, deftly prying the glass from his grip and moving it out of reach. ‘Just apologize for making a scene and we'll drop the subject.’

‘I'm not making a scene!’ Draco says, voice rising, beginning to make a scene. ‘I _corrected_ some ignorant and racist comments.’

Lucius cuts in. ‘I didn't say anything _racist.’_

‘Yes, you said—’

‘That's _enough,’_ Narcissa snaps. ‘This is a ridiculous argument and we're not having it on what's meant to be a nice evening.’

Draco scowls and summons his champagne glass back across the table, draining it. ‘Fine,’ he says and the conversation goes cold and quiet.

The rest of the evening remains heavy with discomfort, even as they eat their meals and try to move on to other subjects. It occurs to Draco that in spite of all his secrecy, in spite of everything he has kept hidden from them: he has never actually disagreed with his parents before. 

So much, Draco thinks, for not having to hold his tongue around his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw the next chapter is going up... very shortly. Like, within the next half an hour.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day, whoops, sorry.

Once he has the three Melissa candidates before him, finding the correct one isn’t actually all that hard. He enlists Granger’s help—she’s actually spectacularly easy to tempt into assistance if one has something on offer that might be a horcrux and requires a lot of digging through old newspaper articles. 

 

Which is what they do. They sit at Draco’s kitchen table for most of a day with Granger’s laptop open in front of them and a large pot of tea, reading through rough, nearly illegible scans of newspaper articles from the 50s which have been put “online”. They have a very rough-shod scan-to-text search which Draco is simultaneously impressed and frustrated by. It is pretty amazing what muggles have managed to do without magic, he has to admit—but when half the articles come through the scan function positively littered with ampersands and em-dashes it's hard to be  _ that  _ blown away by it. 

 

‘We won’t necessarily find anything,’ Granger reminds him at about the point (six hours in) that Draco is drumming his fingers relentlessly on the table and whinging near constantly. ‘The murder may never have been linked to her. Even a suspicious death, there’s no reason she couldn’t have covered it enough as a witch that muggle news would never have gotten a hold of it.’ 

 

‘Then why are we even _ looking?’  _

 

‘Because I already checked wizarding records,’ she says, because of course she did pre-research for their research party. ‘And there was nothing about any of the Melissas you found. So this is our best bet.’ 

 

Draco huffs and sits up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the screen again, trying to concentrate on the results. He watches as Granger scrolls down the page, new headlines appearing and others disappearing, just as—

 

‘Wait,’ he says, stopping her just before one 1951 result vanishes at the top of the screen. He pokes it. ‘What’s that?’ 

 

The title of the article is fairly nondescript, just says something along the lines of “Housing: Widow Gets Home In Ballot.” Draco wouldn’t have glanced at it twice: but then, highlighted in the glimpse of the body of the article: 

 

_ Mrs  _ **_M_ ** _ Bourdon, née  _ **_Lioncourt_ ** _ of Pleasants County,  _ **_West Virginia_ ** _ was so  &shaken she could not speak and could scarcely believe her luck! The widow drew the first marble for a three bedroom home balloted on Wednesday night. Mrs Bourdon has been living with her two sisters since her husband’s sudden death six weeks ago which was the subject of some speculation in this publication. The couple had no children, but Mrs Bourdon states that she and her sisters[...] _

 

The rest of the article is simply about the other two winners of the ballot—but this is all they need. 

 

Draco looks at Melissa. ‘So you offed your husband then, did you?’

 

‘There’s not much further information,’ Granger says, quickly searching for and pulling up several more articles about the death in question. ‘He died suddenly from unexplained causes. Doesn’t look like anyone speculated Melissa was behind it, but they could never work out what the cause of death was, look at these.’ 

 

Draco skims over the articles, feeling slightly put out. Part of him didn’t want Granger’s theory to pan out. ‘Well. There we have it, I suppose.’

 

‘We don’t know the circumstances,’ Granger concedes. ‘But for her to make a horcrux, it would have been premeditated.’ She keeps looking through records. ‘We should see what she got up to with the rest of her life.’

 

Turns out: not much. She never remarried, continued to live with her sisters and, as far as Draco and Granger can tell, went on to do nothing notable whatsoever. 

 

‘She's still alive,’ Granger points out. 

 

‘Well of course. I have her horcrux right here.’

 

‘Are you going to owl her?’

 

Draco thinks. It seems weird, to reach out to someone who you only know through a distant piece of flotsam of their murderous soul that haunts a creepy antique doll.

 

But Draco thinks about it, and he thinks about it up to the point in the month that he's itching with the approaching full moon and then, making a decision, he writes two letters. 

 

The first reads: 

 

_ Dear Melissa Bourdon, _

 

_ My name is Draco Malfoy. I am a wizard and I reside in London, England. I collect antiques and I have recently learned that an item I have in my collection might have some sentimental significance to you (see photograph enclosed).  _

 

_ In the interest of full disclosure and assuming that you are familiar with the situation which we went through several years ago on our side of the pond: I used to be a Death Eater. I have long since left that life behind me, however, it feels appropriate to be upfront about my past.  _

 

_ This may sound strange but, given how fond I have become of this doll of yours, I feel as though you and I are friendly. I am writing in the hope that you might be willing to correspond with me. I also wanted you to know that your doll is safe and well cared for—although I'm sure you would know if that were not the case! (Apologies if this joke is in poor taste.) _

 

_ I hope this letter finds you in good health. My sincerest apologies if I am not writing to the correct individual, and this all means absolutely nothing to you. If this is the case, please feel free to disregard everything in this note as the rantings of a crazy person and please do not alert any authorities, magical or otherwise. _

 

_ Thank you and best wishes, _

_ Draco Malfoy. _

 

The second he writes for different reasons. It's also not really a letter. 

 

It’s a text, and although he types it up he does not send it. He simply saves it as a draft and puts his phone aside. 

 

The morning of the full moon, he owls off the letter to Melissa. He drinks his last dose of wolfsbane. Then he wiles away the day until nightfall and does not head to Grimmauld Place. He feels a touch guilty. He should probably say something to Lupin that he won’t be joining them this month. But he feels private, and he doesn’t want to say anything right now, in case he’s making a wrong move. 

 

He undresses before he transforms as usual and sits cross legged on his bed in the light of the slowly setting sun. He can feel it growing inside him, the lure to transform. He could probably let it take him over now, turn in the first dull rays of moonlight. But instead he flips open his phone with shaking fingers and reads over his message again. 

 

_ You’ve changed me and I need to offer something in return,  _ it reads.  _ You are under no obligation to see me, and this is only an offer—with no expectations. But if you would like to see me tonight, you are welcome. I will be home. You will be safe. _

 

When the moon has risen and his bones are clawing at him from the inside out, he presses send.

 

Dumb idea he realises, kind of, because as a wolf he is not dextrous enough to check his phone if Nico replies or tries to call. But that is moot anyway, because there is no response. After he has turned, Draco prowls the apartment, restless and on edge. Usually he stays in bed when transformed at home, but he supposes that now he’s somewhat used to activity and—heaven forbid—eating trash. So he prowls, shoves his nose into the nooks of his kitchen with instinct driven interest. But he doesn’t scavenge and ultimately he just remains strung out on nervous energy, so he goes back to his room, jumps up onto the bed, and stares outside into the dark night outside, ears twitching occasionally on high alert. 

 

He told himself not to expect anything, and really he shouldn’t. You don’t just tell someone thirty seconds before the full moon rises that they can come see a werewolf and then expect them to show up. 

 

Unless that person is Nico. 

 

If he were currently human, Draco may not have heard the door creak open. It is cautious and quiet, and for a moment there is nothing. Then, just the soft sound of a footfall in the hallway. Draco’s head pricks up from where he’s lying on the bed and he glances toward the sound. 

 

There is no further movement as far as Draco can tell. He waits and listens for a few seconds, expecting Nico to move into the flat—and when he doesn’t, Draco cautiously and quietly hops off the bed. His paws hit the carpet lightly and, head ducked low, he approaches the open door and looks out into the hallway. 

 

Nico is standing there in shadow, the only light the overhead in the kitchen that Draco left on. He seems frozen, but there’s no doubt that he sees Draco, who simply hears a sharp intake of breath. 

 

Slowly, Draco steps a paw out of the room, and then another, and moves into the hall, staring at Nico through the darkness. He can see Nico better than Nico can see him in the dim light. He looks a little wary, but he is standing here. Unprotected. Draco would say unafraid, but that’s not true: he can sense the tension coming off the muggle like a scent in the air. 

 

Draco prowls forward until he hits the light falling across the hall from the other room and then he stops. He sits. He ducks his head. 

 

‘Draco?’ Nico asks, unsure. 

 

With a shuffling motion, Draco lowers his body, paws in front of him. So that he looks like a domesticated dog. Waiting for approval. He is a platinum blond wolf, slight and with piercing grey eyes. Who else would he be?

 

Nico, almost stumbling, moves forward and drops to his knees less than a foot away. He reaches out, pulling himself only barely back from touching. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Fuck. Look at you. You’re—’ He inches closer. ‘Can you understand me? Can I touch you?’ 

 

With a small sound of affirmation, Draco shuffles forward across the floor and bumps his nose against Nico’s warm palm. For a moment, the scent of him is overwhelming—stronger like this, stronger for the heat of the day, the slight touch of sweat and apprehension. It takes all of Draco’s restraint to stay perfectly still and let himself be touched. 

 

Nico’s hand moves. He rubs his thumb across the fur of Draco’s muzzle and then shifts his fingers so they’re buried in the fur behind his ear. He scritches. He strokes down the back of Draco’s crest and says, ‘Wow. You’re really…’ He laughs out loud, startlingly sudden. ‘You’re a werewolf! Look at you!’ 

 

Then he throws his arms around Draco’s neck and buries his face in his fur. ‘You can eat me if you want,’ he says, muffled, slightly hysterically. ‘This is how I want to go.’ 

 

Draco thumps his tail rapidly on the floor.  _ I’m not going to eat you, you idiot. _

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Nico says into Draco’s fur. ‘I shouldn’t be hugging you like this when we’re not… but this is so cool.’ He ruffles his hands through the thick coat of Draco’s back and flank. ‘Who’s a good werewolf?  _ Who’s a good werewolf?’ _

 

Instinctually, the longer Nico hugs him, the more apprehensive Draco gets. Tension and a feeling of being trapped begin to coil inside him, but he ignores them in favour of the part of him that’s still human and wants to lean into the embrace, close his eyes and stay here as long as possible. 

 

Finally Nico pulls back. ‘Thanks for this,’ he says. ‘This is extremely cool and I know how you feel about people seeing you like this.’ He scratches his fingers on the brow of Draco’s head so that Draco closes his eyes and tilts into the touch. 

 

Then he stops and stands up, takes a step backward. ‘Right, well. Before anything else. I want to talk at you. And this is good, because you can’t talk back, and no offense but you can be a bit of a pain in the neck, so I can just… lay it out. Alright? Alright.’ 

 

Nico crosses the room and turns on the light switch, bathing the living room in warm, incandescent light. He glances around—things have changed in here ever so slightly since he was last over. Draco has cleaned up quite a few of his scattered objects and sold a few on. In their place are the books that Granger gave him, mostly left in small stacks wherever he finished reading them. Draco watches as Nico picks up one of the closest books—something on house-elfs that Draco has only read a few chapters of—and flips it over in his hands, skimming the blurb. 

 

Quietly, Draco pads halfway across the room to follow him.  

 

‘So here’s the thing,’ Nico says, putting the book down again and turning around. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks uncomfortable. ‘I’m very good at going no-contact with people. Like, I can cut people out like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘And I’m also good at staying mates with people I’ve shagged. Usually if I’m hooking up with someone the pattern goes one of two ways. Either we shag a few times and then I ghost them a bit and then we just hang out as mates and maybe keep shagging here and there, and then I ghost again as necessary, rinse, repeat, karaoke, indefinitely right? Or, we shag a few times, then a few times more, then they say something terrifying like “boyfriend” or “dating” or “holiday” or “parents” and I immediately shut down, find an excuse to cut them out, do that, and then never speak to them again. And here’s the problem, I’ve tried to have it both ways with you.’

 

Draco feels ice cold. He can feel his ears flattening, and he doesn’t move. Only watches as Nico takes a few pacing steps across the room. 

 

‘I thought I was going to no-contact you,’ he continues. ‘My plan was even to make sure I never had a shift after a full moon, just so I could pull a complete disappearing act. But then I changed my mind. I told myself if I saw you again we could do the friends thing, except I just had to keep my distance this time. I saw it as all these rules I could place on myself—and I guess you, by extension—and they’d be a probationary thing. I could talk to you, but only about certain subjects. I could text you, but only twice a week and I couldn’t reply to anything you sent me without waiting at least an hour to do so. I could invite you out to group things, but only if Em was there. Stuff like that.

 

‘It’s stupid. I thought I was protecting myself, but I’m actually making roundabout excuses to let myself see you, let myself let  _ you _ be part of my life. And it isn’t fair on you, I guess. Because you have no way to know what I’m doing, so it’s just stringing you along, really—which is a shitty thing to do, and I don’t like being shitty. 

 

‘Which is why you had to be the shitty one. And don’t get me wrong, you kind of were. Which is why it sucks that you’re actually working on that and I think you’re actually not that shitty at all. Because that means I have to tell you all this, and I can’t just tell myself you’re a tosser and move on with my life. But the truth is that when we broke up, I was looking for a fight. I was looking for a reason to dump you, and I was doing it because I was fucking  _ terrified  _ of how much I enjoy being with you. And again, to be clear, I’m not saying I made something up, or anything like that. I do still fundamentally disagree with the things I disagreed with and I am still completely horrified at the fact that you have the ability to change my memories on a whim. But it’s also true that I was digging for that and I was bringing it up so that I could pin it all on you, get away clean, and be able to be the good guy.’ 

 

With a deep exhalation, Nico drops down onto the sofa by the window and rubs his hands over his face aggressively. He goes quiet, almost like he’s waiting for Draco to say something, in spite of the fact that Draco obviously  _ can’t. _ He does what he can, which is lower his tail and his body so that he’s lying stiffly down on the floor, showing he’s listening. He’s honestly not quite sure what Nico is saying, or what he’s getting at. He thinks he should be pissed off, maybe—but instead, he’s catching on phrases like  _ how much I enjoy being with you.  _ He twitches his tail slowly and, warily, waits for Nico to continue. 

 

Which he does, after a long silence. ‘So here’s the backstory,’ Nico says. He puts one hand over his mouth, closes his eyes and adds, ‘Fuck, I don’t tell people this… When I was, uh, I guess about seventeen, I got into a very serious relationship. Like, way too serious. I moved in with him before I even started university, we furnished a flat together, we had a shared bank account, the full deal. It seemed fine at the time, because he was in his twenties so it was like, of course we’d have our own place. I didn’t think at the time to question why a twenty-four year old guy would want to date a kid who hadn’t finished his GCSE yet, but it felt normal and I was in love with him. 

 

‘We built a life together. I went to uni to study nursing, he was on track to finish his law degree. My parents didn’t like him, but they didn’t like that I was with a guy at all, so I wasn’t about to listen to any other concerns they had. Bran—that was the guy, his name was Branford—he encouraged me to distance myself from my parents since they were homophobes and I didn’t need that kinda bollocks in my life. So I didn’t speak to them for years. Or my sisters much, either, even though they always supported me being gay. Bran thought that since they were still in contact with my parents that meant they weren’t really on my side. I also lost touch with most of my good friends from highschool, like you often do at that age. So it was just me and Bran against the world. 

 

‘For a while, everything was good. Really good. I felt like I had my shit together. I was only eighteen and I was making it on my own with my wonderful boyfriend who was my best friend and always had my back. I was doing great at school. I was playing rugby. We had a fighting fish. He could make amazing mushroom spaghetti. Bran, that is, not the fish. We had it all sorted out. 

 

‘And then it all went to piss. Not quickly. Very, very slowly. It started just with little things. Bran not being home as much, maybe. Staying late to study. He always had reasons, he was in his final year of law school, so of  _ course  _ he was busy more. We had less money, and I couldn’t work out why, because we weren’t spending more. He was hanging out with his mates a lot, and I wasn’t invited along, which was new. For a while, things were very up and down. Bran wanted to fuck less. Then he wanted to fuck all the time. He would basically ignore me at home. Then he’d take me on lavish dates and tell me how much he loved me. 

 

‘I’d call him out on it, but he would always deny everything. He’d tell me I was imagining it, that nothing had changed. That I was just clingy. That he needed time to himself and I was always suffocating him, that I was trying to manipulate him to get what I wanted. I took it to heart. I tried to cool off, told myself I was just reading into things. This was just what relationships were like after the honeymoon period. But things kept getting worse. Money kept disappearing. He had calls from strange numbers. I confronted him, asked if he was cheating on me. 

 

‘Bran told me he wasn’t. Again, I was misinterpreting things. I was paranoid. I was lying. I was snooping on him for checking our shared bank statements and for seeing the screen of his phone light up when he had it out. And I kept believing him. I kept questioning the things I was seeing and hearing and thinking. I blamed myself for being distrustful and I was worried I was going to drive him away by being so insecure. Without him, I’d have nothing. Everything we owned was  _ ours. _ His name was on the lease. I didn’t even have money that wasn’t tied up with his. I had cut off my family for him.

 

‘Anyway, turns out, he’d obviously been cheating on me. A lot. Literally, an almost comically absurd amount. I don’t know how he found the hours in the day. The break-up was the messiest thing. It happened the week before my final fucking exams at the end of my second year. In about two days I lost everything I owned, I lost my partner, I lost all faith in myself as a human person. I lost my fighting fish. I moved into tiny shitty shared student housing and failed, ah, most of my exams. In particular, I completely bombed my nursing unit. The only thing I did well in was biology, so I clung to that and switched majors. 

 

‘After that, I just… ran. I managed to wrangle a sponsored semester over at a partner school in Brazil, and spent the next two years jumping between there and the States and Canada. I got really into cryptozoology. I built a new version of myself and told myself that from here on out, I was living for  _ me. _ I was studying what I loved, even if I had no plans for what to do with it. I was making new friends, both online and in real life. I was fucking anyone who claimed to have seen Bigfoot. And I wasn’t going to let myself fall for anyone’s bullshit ever again. And yes, I do realise that’s a touch incompatible with the Bigfoot thing, shut up. 

 

‘The point is, it’s worked for me. I learned how to trust my instincts. I became confident again. And I can’t, I  _ can’t  _ lose that. Do you get that?’ 

 

Draco does. He pushes up off the carpet and approaches Nico, bumping his snout against the fraying denim covering his knees. It’s the best he can do. There’s no real way to say what he’s thinking in canine body language, because what he’s thinking is a swirling mess of sympathy and accusation that he has no desire to express. It is a  _ ‘you can trust me’ _ of empathy tied up in a  _ ‘you can trust me’ _ of anger.  _ I wouldn’t do that to you. You would throw away a good thing because of some tosser years ago? What have I ever done to make you think—  _

 

‘Do you want up on the couch?’ Nico asks, and Draco jumps up next to him, sitting upright on the soft, broad cushions. ‘I just dumped a lot on you. My bad. I’ve never said all that out loud at once before.’ 

 

The angry thread inside of Draco tightens and loosens, shifts to something new. _ I would hurt the person who hurt you. _

 

‘All that to say,’ Nico goes on. ‘You’ve kind of messed up my whole system, mate. Because not having you around has kind of, uh, been miserable. I’m pretty well used to feeling overwhelming relief when I trim someone off from my life, but instead I’ve just missed you and felt like I made a mistake. And I was able to talk myself out of that at first, because I had  _ good fucking reasons _ for ending it. But, if you’re serious that you’re addressing the specific issues that were a problem, then, uh, that puts me in a tricky spot of having to work through and address my own feelings. And Draco, I hate that.’ 

 

And with those words, Nico reaches out to bury his hands in Draco’s fur again and leans in, exhaling into his pelt. ‘Kinda wish you could say something now,’ he mumbles, so Draco does all he can do and turns his head to lick Nico’s ear. He feels him laugh into his fur. 

 

There’s not much to do. There’s nothing that can be said. There is no option but to wait for morning, so that’s what happens. Nico asks if he can stay the night when he realises how late it is, and Draco immediately jumps off the chair and nudges, drags him to the bedroom. He bumps him in the back of the thighs with his forehead, pushing him towards the bed until Nico falls onto it and rolls over to look at the full moon through the open windows. 

 

He blinks, clearly exhausted. ‘I missed you,’ he says. ‘I thought seeing you as a werewolf would be the coolest shit ever—and don’t get it twisted, it is—but I really want to see you-you again.’

 

_ Don’t worry about that, _ Draco thinks. He jumps up onto the bed, putting some space between himself and Nico, and curls up with his back to the window. 

 

He doesn’t sleep a whole lot, but Nico does. Draco mostly just lets himself enjoy the sensation of the bed dipping next to him again, the feeling of Nico’s fingers curled against his fur where he has reached out to touch. 

 

But the night ends, and Nico shoots straight up in bed when Draco scrambles, claws off the side of the mattress, drops to the floor and howls in agony. It’s sudden and Draco can sense the panic coming off Nico in waves, but doesn’t have the faculty to respond to it. He can only register the curve of his back, the way his limbs stretch out and crack, break. The way his bones morph inside his skin and rearrange themselves with a sensation of being on fire. Then his claws are fingers clenched into the carpet beneath him, and he’s on all fours, panting, sweating and he can feel himself drawing in ragged breaths and sense Nico’s concerned gaze on him. 

 

Draco shifts so that he’s sitting on his knees and shakily straightens his back, pushing his hair off his face with pale fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Nico move across the bed, hurrying to come closer, reach out—Draco holds up a trembling hand to stop him. ‘Just… give me…’ His voice sounds raspy and he coughs, clearing his throat. ‘It’s normal. Always like that.’ 

 

‘Anything I can do?’ 

 

‘Not really, not yet.’ Draco shifts again, resting his shoulder on the side of the bed and slumping heavily against it. The pain is starting to slowly subside, going from an all-body searing wretchedness to just a throbbing, quiet ache. ‘How was it to watch?’ he asks, tone a touch acidic. ‘Interesting? Enlightening?’ 

 

‘It looked really fucking painful.’ 

 

‘Hm. Yeah.’ He tilts his head up to look at Nico hovering, concerned, on the bed above him. ‘Could you get me something to put on? You and I need to chat.’ 

 

Nico jumps into action with a fast ‘Of course!’ and digs through Draco’s clothes until he finds some boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Draco tugs them on slightly clumsily before climbing up onto the bed and reclining back against his thick, comfortable pillows. He lets out a sigh and pats the duvet next to him. 

 

‘I missed you too,’ he says dully, as Nico sits down. ‘And I really have changed, I think. I even had a fight with my parents about wizard racism recently. In public. But more importantly, I want to keep working on this stuff. I’m not going to pretend I’m there yet, because it’s a process. But I’ve learned that it’s actually… freeing to let go of all the pureblood stuff.’ He cracks his neck and feels the bones shift, still misaligned from the transformation. He winces. ‘Ow.’ 

 

‘That’s… good,’ Nico says. ‘And should wizards hold a position of power in society over muggles?’ 

 

Draco gives him a dry look. ‘No. And the fact that wizards think we’re best positioned to control and influence muggle society betrays a thoroughly misplaced sense of paternalism that we, quite frankly, don’t fucking deserve. I learned recently that there are ways to run a society which don’t just involve a single non-democratic body governing all aspects of civil life and honestly, I’m kind of blown away. A closed group of private, non-elected individuals with… no specific qualifications determines who our Minister is, Nico. There is literally no transparency. This is why a psychopath managed to take over our entire government in one afternoon, Merlin.’ 

 

Nico stares at him. ‘Are you telling me wizards don’t have democracy?’ 

 

‘Yeah, well. The point is, I’m learning. And I intend to keep learning. And Nico, you’re… I don’t want to say this wrong. To be clear: I don’t want you to have to teach me anything. I don’t want to make mistakes and hurt you, and I don’t want to make you feel like you have to hold my hand when I fuck up and pat me on the head when I do good. But I do want you to see me be a better person. That might be selfish.’ 

 

‘Draco…’ 

 

‘About the stuff you said last night, I’m sorry that guy fucked you over. Some people will do anything for control over another person. It’s not your fault.’ 

 

‘I realise you went through worse, I didn’t mean to make it sound—’ 

 

‘I don’t think it’s useful to try to compare…’ Draco trails off. ‘I mean, you didn’t get turned into a werewolf, admittedly, but putting that aside…’ 

 

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Nico says, ‘What do you  _ want,  _ Draco?’ 

 

‘To be with you,’ Draco answers without hesitation. 

 

‘Okay, but you get that I’m—I’m scared of that. Because I told myself I would never, ever let myself be manipulated again. Doubting myself was the worst. I doubted everything. I couldn’t trust my own perceptions. I lost who I  _ was  _ for a while, I just became the lies I was told. Every moment of my life back then became intertwined with this whole reality that was just  _ wrong. _ And that’s what Bran did to me just with words. The fact that you are capable of doing that to me literally, with magic? Even if I think you wouldn’t, and I want to trust you when you say that, I do. But just knowing that it’s possible: that alone might be a dealbreaker.’ 

 

Draco looks down at his hands twisting in the duvet cover and frowns. 

 

‘And I don’t want it to be,’ Nico continues. ‘Because I genuinely do think that if it wasn’t for that stuff, we could be right together. Especially seeing how hard you’ll work to change. But…’ 

 

‘I get it,’ Draco mutters. 

 

‘No, you don’t—’ 

 

‘I’m scared of the same things, Nico. I’m terrified of losing myself. I know a bit about feeling like you can’t trust your own mind, or other people’s intentions for you.’ He laughs wryly and looks up, meeting Nico’s eyes. ‘But here’s the kicker, and it’s kind of horse shit: you do have to end up trusting people again, because being alone isn’t actually better.’ 

 

Nico sighs and looks up at the ceiling, leaning back on his hands. He’s silent for a long while. 

 

‘I can’t tell you what is and is not a dealbreaker for you,’ Draco says quietly after a moment. ‘I’ll understand if the magic thing is something you can’t get past—’ 

 

‘It’s not magic _ in general,’  _ Nico says pointedly.

 

‘Yeah, I know. I understand that it is very specifically the mind control and memory wiping stuff. I don’t know what I can say to reassure you. I can’t tell you that I’ve never put someone under  _ imperius, _ because I have. I can tell you that the thought of ever doing it again makes me sick to my stomach. It was one of things that I did when it was either that, or get my family killed. And no one did any magic on me to force me to do what they wanted from me. They just threatened me. I’m an Occlumens.’ At Nico’s blank look, he says: ‘That means I can guard my mind against magical penetration. Mind reading. I wouldn’t be so effective against mind control. That’s more about strength of will, which I don’t exactly have in spades. But my point is, I have defenses against the magical stuff you’re scared of, but they still got me to do what they wanted. Just the same way as a muggle might. Lies and threats and manipulation and fear. There’s no way I can convince you that I’d never hurt you. There’s no way you can guarantee to me that you would never hurt me in that way either. It’s just the methods that would differ.’ 

 

Nico frowns. ‘I don’t like any of that,’ he says. 

 

‘I can teach you Occlumency,’ Draco offers. ‘It’s like, ninety percent mindfulness. I don’t even know for sure you need magic to do it.’ 

 

Nico sounds skeptical. ‘You’re like the least mindful person I’ve ever met.’

 

‘How dare you,’ Draco objects, and Nico laughs. 

 

‘You’re not wrong, though.’ He bites his lip, looking Draco up and down. They’re sitting a full foot apart, and Draco is still just leaning against the headboard and pillows, feeling a bit hollow and sick all over, but raw and open. ‘I want to say I can trust you.’ 

 

‘I swear on my own name, I can—honestly—be a shitheel,  _ but  _ when I care for someone, that’s it for me. I know who my allies are, and I am loyal to them to a fault. You can trust me and... and I love you.’ Draco pauses. He didn’t quite mean to say those last three words, but they’re out now and they are the honest truth. 

 

Nico has frozen. He looks kind of dumbstruck, his chest rising and falling as he visibly fights to keep his breathing even. Draco can’t quite tell if it’s from emotion or terror. Could be either. Could be both. 

 

‘I need to get to work,’ he says suddenly. 

 

Draco leans his head back and laughs, loudly. The amusement shakes through his exhausted body and makes him feel sick. 

 

‘I really do,’ Nico says. ‘My shift starts at seven and I need a shower and a shirt I haven’t slept in.’ 

 

‘You are literally, impossibly, astoundingly the most avoidant human being I have ever—’ 

 

Nico interrupts, talking over him. ‘I would like to be with you. I think—I think we should try.’ 

 

Draco stops laughing. ‘On what terms?’ 

 

‘I mean, relationship ones. I know you want to be exclusive. That, yes. Dating. Boyfriends. Telling people, potentially. If that’s what you want.’

 

‘That is what I want,’ Draco says, slowly. A sensation of soothing warmth is spreading through him, from the depth of his stomach and outward. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s—go have a shower, Nico. We can work out clothes, don’t worry about that.’ 

 

There is a flash of a nervous grin and then Nico swings off the bed and hurries into the bathroom. He’s in there for a while, longer than a shower would necessarily usually take; but Draco rationalises that he’s probably having a minor panic and it’s best to let him work through it. 

 

Slowly and dizzily, Draco pulls on a pair of trousers and a flowing cloak over his t-shirt and sits back down on the bed. Somewhere in this is a regular post-full moon morning. He is going to follow Nico to the café and he is going to eat too much food, and he is going to come home and sleep most of the afternoon away. 

 

It’s slightly awkward, leaving the house and walking together, as though they’ve both forgotten how they usually talk to one another. But it is only a short distance and as they walk Draco slips his hand into Nico’s and Nico squeezes back, not pulling away. 

 

They turn the corner into the street. Draco pauses. 

 

‘Is this a thing now?’ Nico asks, also spotting Lupin, Black and Potter waiting several yards away by a park bench outside the café, evidently waiting for it to open. 

 

‘Apparently…’ Draco replies. He doesn’t think he’s actually been spotted yet. The three of them seem to be engaged in conversation, so he just stills and looks at Nico. ‘I should go talk to them.’ 

 

‘Yeah, just—’ Nico gives Draco’s hand he’s holding a small tug and pulls him a step closer. ‘I’ll go open up, you guys come right in, alright? The kitchen blokes should already be there, I can get your breakfasts going.’

 

‘Coffee first, please,’ Draco says, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like begging, which it is. 

 

Nico grins. And then he leans in and, lifting his other hand to Draco’s jaw to guide them together, brushes their lips close in a sweet, deep kiss that has Draco sighing against his mouth. It’s been too long. He’s missed this. Reaching up, he strokes his fingers up Nico’s neck and into his hair--shorter at the back now, recently cut.  

 

‘I’ll see you in there,’ Nico says as he pulls away and jogs toward the café. ‘I’ll get the machine going.’ 

 

Draco exhales, unable to quite fight back his pleased smile. He turns on the spot and walks over to Lupin, Black and Potter who have, now, definitely seen him. ‘Good morning,’ he says brightly. ‘Bit early to be up and about, isn’t it?’ 

 

‘We were surprised when you didn’t join us last night,’ Lupin says. ‘I thought we should check here that you hadn’t been captured by werewolf hunters. Again.’ 

 

Draco clears his throat. ‘Safe and sound,’ he confirms. ‘Who wants breakfast?’ 

 

‘Went well with Nico, then?’ Potter asks. 

 

The small smile on Draco’s face threatens to break into an actual grin, so he turns away quickly and walks to the door of the café. 

 

Potter groans, following. ‘God. You are so smug right now, it’s awful.’


	16. Chapter 16

The following day Draco finds out at about noon that Nico is halfway to Northumberland. He gets a phone call while Nico is stopped in Doncaster for lunch and, from the sounds of it, eating fish and chips in the car with at least two other people while Tubthumping plays loudly on the stereo.

 

‘I realised I probably didn’t mention,’ Nico says. ‘I’ll just be away a few nights. We’re looking for evidence of the Barguest and doing an overnight ghost tour at Chillingham Castle.’

 

Draco flicks his wand so that the dough of the shortbread he’s baking begins to knead itself. ‘Hm,’ he replies. ‘I just feel like there’s a time limit on make-up sex, is my issue with that.’

‘Is it… Tuesday? Because I’m back on Tuesday.’

 

‘No, I think it’s actually about three a.m. tonight. You’re not camping, are you?’

 

‘We’re not this time, actually. Beth has a machine she needs to sleep with, so we’re doing hotels tonight and Monday.’

 

‘Not tomorrow?’

 

‘Castle! Do you want me to steal you a thumb-screw? I don’t think we’re sleeping in the torture chambers, but that’s how it was pitched. Also, fully catered dinner.’

 

‘Uh huh.’ Draco motions for his shortbread to begin to roll itself out. ‘No, I don’t need any more thumb-screws, I already have a set of cursed ones. They’re in the cabinet. Here’s my question, though. I thought you weren’t that keen on ghosts. Why are you staying the night in a haunted castle?’

 

‘History? Fancy garden? Sneaking off to see Edward the First’s bedroom?’ There’s the sound of a can of soft drink opening, and then a pause as Nico drinks. Draco can hear two female voices in the background talking together from the other side of the car. ‘I dunno, it’s not like we’re actually going to see any ghosts—’

 

It is faint due to passing traffic, but one of the women interrupts. _‘We might!’_

 

‘You might,’ Draco agrees fairly. ‘Most real castles have a ghost or two. I suspect most of them would choose to stay out of public eye, but every now and again you might get a character.’

 

‘Draco agrees with you, Kitty,’ Nico says to the woman. ‘I remain a skeptic.’

 

‘Do I need to literally introduce you to a ghost?’ Draco asks, exasperated. ‘I can.’

 

‘You have. Melissa.’

 

‘Oh! No, turns out she’s not a ghost.’

 

‘What is she then?’

 

Draco holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder and picks up a knife to cut the rolled out dough into slices. ‘Something much more evil than that,’ Draco says cheerfully. ‘She’s here, actually. Helping me make biscuits.’

 

‘Oh, well. Tell her I say hi. When you say “evil”...?’

 

‘Nico says hi,’ Draco tells Melissa. ‘She’s not going to reply. But just take it as a given. Anyway, none of this answers my initial point.’

 

‘What was your initial point? I should really get going, we’ve got another three hours on the road…’

 

‘The narrow time-frame for you to fuck my brains out,’ Draco reminds him. ‘I’m doing social justice book-club with Granger this afternoon, but after.’

 

‘I’ll be in Berwick-Upon-Tweed. Like, yes, I do want to do that, but I can’t bail on this. It’s been planned for weeks. I’ve paid my share of the accommodation.’

 

‘I’m not asking you to. Do you have your own room tonight?’

 

‘Yeah, that’s the plan.’

 

‘Well, perfect. Just give me a ring later tonight, whenever you’re done cryptid hunting for the evening.’

 

‘You do realise Northumberland is six hours drive away from London, right?’

 

Draco snickers. ‘Good thing I don’t drive, then,’ he drawls. ‘Alright, I need to get these biscuits in the oven.’ He bids goodbye to a slightly confused Nico and moves to hang up the phone. Just before he disconnects the call he can hear the beginning of a debate on the other end of the line about who is going to drive the next leg of the trip.

 

He puts his phone down and squints at his shortbread. He has been pretty deliriously happy since yesterday morning, but he’s suddenly feeling like Nico bailing out of the city for the weekend the day after they get back together might be something of a signal.

 

As he said, he goes to visit Granger that afternoon with his plate of fresh shortbread and a couple of books. These conversations have been getting more comfortable. They feel, these days, less like lectures where Draco should be taking extensive notes, and more like genuine discussions.

 

‘I’d like your opinion on something,’ Draco says, during a lull in conversation when Granger is reaching for a biscuit to dunk in her mug of tea. ‘I always took that we Obliviate muggles for granted, as it seemed necessary and practical. But you probably agree with Nico on this one, knowing both of you. Do you think it’s inhumane?’

 

Frowning, Granger gives him an odd look. ‘I’m not sure I’m the best person to discuss this with,’ she replies carefully.

 

‘Of course you are. You’re muggle-ish, and you’re an ethics person.’

 

‘I’m not _muggle-ish,_ Malfoy. I’m a witch.’

 

Draco waves his hand. ‘You know what I mean. You can see both sides of the issue.’

 

‘To a degree. But it’s not… I think the thing about being muggleborn is that it’s not like being halfway a muggle and halfway a witch. There’s no way that you can only half be magical, you know?’

  
‘Half-bloods,’ Draco points out.

 

‘Not at _all_ what I mean. Nothing to do with blood purity. I’m saying that on a very practical level, you either have magic or you don’t. Culturally there are distinctions, of course. But even as a muggleborn, I have no idea, _no idea,_ what it’s like to exist in the world as a muggle. No more than you do, Draco. Even growing up, before I knew about the wizarding world, I never grew up as a muggle. I was always a witch.’ She lifts her shortbread to her mouth and takes a small bite, cupping her hand under her mouth to catch crumbs. ‘What does Nico say about this?’

 

‘So, when we were talking about us—we’re back together, by the way—’

 

‘I know, you’ve said four times already.’

 

‘Right, yeah. Of course. Well, it’s something he struggles with. I won’t go into his reasons, but he is extremely opposed to wizards using any sort of memory alteration to cover up our existence. I think he considers it some sort of crime against humanity or something like that.’

 

Granger shrugs in agreement. ‘Mm, sure. That’s definitely a fair way to look at it. What’s your take? You obviously haven’t obliviated him.’

 

‘I don’t know, honestly. I have little interest in hiding the existence of magic from muggles. I do it, obviously, but I’m not personally invested in the whole situation. Nico doesn’t like that I see him as special or an exception. I think he likes to believe that every muggle on earth would accept magic as easily as he did.’

 

‘My family adjusted very well too, all things considered. They were proud of me.’

 

‘So you agree with him? We just shouldn’t try to hide our existence, if muggles are so accepting?’

 

‘I wiped my mum and dad’s memories,’ Granger says. She says it matter of factly, but there is a slight tremble to her voice as she tells him, like it is hard to get out. ‘I made them forget me.’

 

Draco starts, alarmed. ‘You did what? Why on earth would you do that?’

 

‘To protect them. It was a long time ago, of course. I did it when I could see that we were going to have a war and I wanted to keep them safe. It took me a while after everything to bring them back from Australia, to restore their memories. I left it several years, because they were happy as they were and I wanted to let things settle down first. It has never been the same, since.’

 

‘No?’

 

‘They can’t trust me. They know why I did it and they understand, I suppose. But I was their daughter, I was still a child. They should have been protecting _me_ and I took that choice from them.’

 

‘They couldn’t have protected you,’ Draco objects, almost indignant. ‘Against death eaters—against _Voldemort?_ What would they have been able to do?’

 

‘Probably nothing,’ Granger says. ‘My dad did one month of Jiu-jitsu classes as a New Years resolution back in 1992 and quit because he thought it was too violent and he was setting a bad example. I stand by my decision to Obliviate them. I still think I did the right thing. I still think that if I hadn’t, they would be dead now.’

 

‘So it’s… _okay_ to mind wipe muggles, then?’

 

Granger finishes her biscuit and sighs. ‘Those were extenuating circumstances.’

  
‘You’re no help at all, Granger,’ Draco says without malice. ‘I come to you for easy answers.’

 

‘I should hope not. Besides, it sounds like you _have_ an easy answer, which is to listen to and respect the person you claim to love. Luckily, we live in more peaceful times these days and we have the chance to reflect on this and think about it without the pressure to act in ways which could get us killed—or worse, rightfully criticised by those we care about.’

 

Draco nods, picking up his tea and looking into the mug thoughtfully. ‘That really is the most dire outcome, isn’t it?’

 

‘I did tell you I probably wasn’t best placed to speak into this one,’ she points out.

 

‘I don't want to fuck this up again,’ he sighs. ‘I feel like it would be so easy to drive him away, just from being thoughtless. Just from being me.’

 

*

 

At about a quarter past eleven that evening, Draco’s phone rings.

 

‘Hey, look, sorry for earlier.’ Nico’s voice comes down the line, stretched around a yawn. ‘I should have let you know before I was already halfway across the country.’

 

Draco has no interest in wasting time. ‘Are you alone?’

 

‘Yeah, just got in from dinner and the girls have gone up to their room. I'm in mine. Fair warning, I've had a few drinks, but we can phone sex or whatever your plan is.’

 

‘Where is your hotel?’

 

Nico tells him.

 

‘What floor are you on?’

 

‘Ground. Right next to the front gardens.’

 

‘Oh, lovely!’

 

‘Yeah, it's nice. I've got the window open. What are you—’

 

‘What direction does the window face?’

 

There's a pause. ‘East? I think? Have you ever had phone se—’

 

‘And can you give me a rough layout of the room?’

 

‘Uh, _sure._ I'm on a queen bed on the opposite wall to the window, the door is next to my bedside table. There's a little table with a telly on it over in the corner, and next to that is the door to the toilet.’

 

‘Where's the largest area of clear space?’

 

‘Right in the middle of the room, at the base of the bed. A few meters between here and the wall.’

 

‘Alright.’ Draco squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Any other tripping hazards?’

 

‘There's a bin next to the telly and a pot plant next to the door. What exactly are you doing?’

 

Draco does his best to hold the shadowy, featureless image of the room in his mind’s eye. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he says, and purposely steps forward into the shadows.

 

‘—Here goes what?’

 

There's an unpleasant lurch as he apparates. It's not a good idea to apparate somewhere you've never been. The chance of getting stuck in a wall is not minimal. For a moment he thinks that might be what has happened, or that he's splinched himself. There is an uncomfortably long period of feeling stuck in between, unable to quite push through to the landing. But with a jerk he comes unstuck and tumbles through into the hotel room, banging his shin on something solid.

 

He opens his eyes. ‘Ow!’ He glares down at the source of the pain: a travel case sitting open at the base of the bed. Rubbing his shin, he looks up at Nico, who is sitting on the bed, shirtless, wide eyed.

 

‘Draco!’

 

‘Tripping hazards, I said,’ Draco grouches. ‘That includes your suitcase.’

 

‘Well, I didn't know you were going to teleport! I didn't know you could teleport!’

 

‘Apparate,’ Draco corrects. He looks around. ‘Ah, I like this, this is adorable!’ The room is incredibly floral, soft pastel blues and pinks mixed with beige. Antimacassars and crochet blankets on furniture. The soft scent of the warm summer night drifting in from the fragrant garden outside. ‘Very quaint country bed and breakfast.’

 

‘There’s a cat that belongs to the hotel owners,’ Nico says. ‘She came in through the window earlier, but chased a ladybug back outside. Keep an eye out, she’s very fluffy.’

 

His words blur together, somewhat slurred, and Draco notices that he is blinking heavily as though trying to focus his gaze. Draco walks over to the window and leans outside into the garden, trying to get a glimpse of the fabled cat. ‘A few drinks?’ he comments over his shoulder.

 

‘We went to the pub, yeah.’ Nico rubs his eye. ‘Needed to wind down after being stuck in the car all day.’

 

‘Are you far gone?’

 

‘Nah, not really,’ Nico says and Draco hears the sound of movement in the room and then feels hands on his hips as Nico comes up behind him. He doesn’t see him, because he’s still looking outside, where soft moonlight catches the light raindrops on the grass and flowerbeds. The garden is surrounded by a tall hedge and cobbled fence, enclosed and almost private.

 

He feels Nico’s lips graze the nape of his neck and lets out a pleased hum, tilting his head to open up to the kiss. Bringing a hand up, Draco curls his fingers through Nico’s thick hair and guides him closer.

 

The sensation of rough stubble grazes Draco’s soft skin as Nico buries his face into his neck and lets out a groan. He isn’t kissing, not exactly. It’s too messy to be a kiss. Just the press of open lips, the warm inhale and exhale of breath, the slight nip of teeth that causes Draco to shiver, press back into the strong body behind him.

 

‘You should fuck me,’ Draco says. He reaches behind him to grab Nico’s arse, pull him closer. ‘Right here at the window. I don’t care if people can see from the road.’

 

‘Calm down,’ replies Nico. ‘There’s a perfectly good bed. And I don’t want Kitty looking down from the room up there and just seeing you half out the window, getting railed.’

 

‘Why not? She doesn’t know me, and she wouldn’t be able to see _you.’_

 

A laugh, but a soft tug at the back of Draco’s shirt. ‘C’mon. I’m not joking, close the window and all.’

 

Draco lets himself be pulled back onto the room proper and with a wave of his hand charms the window shut behind them. It’s a shame—the light breeze of the warm summer night and the faint scent of the ocean was refreshing. ‘Don’t want them hearing, either?’

 

‘Unlikely to be a problem,’ Nico tells him. ‘You’re pretty quiet in bed. Except for talking.’

 

That rankles. ‘Oh?’

 

‘Are you offended at that? You’re kidding, right—you know it’s true.’

 

‘I don’t think I’m unusually quiet.’ He turns to face Nico, slides his hands up his bare chest. ‘Maybe you could hustle more.’

 

A pink tongue peeks through Nico’s teeth as he grins. ‘I didn’t say it as a bad thing. I like it. It makes it more rewarding when I do manage to get a real sound out of you.’

 

Draco drops his hands to Nico’s belt, unbuckling. He slides his hand into the front of his jeans, feeling him through fabric. At the moment, he is a soft, warm weight. Draco wants to drop to his knees and feel him grow hard inside his mouth more than most anything.

 

He wonders if Nico would let him taste him, tonight. Properly, without barriers. It would be a first: but that would seem apt. The location, the warm lights in the warm night. Draco’s desire to show himself off, show off Nico. It’s all fresh. Which feels appropriate, given that this is the new first time together. It may be old hat, but Draco wants something real, immediate, impulsive.

 

He kisses Nico on the lips, then on the collarbone, then in the centre of his chest, then his stomach, making his descent, his intention, clear.

 

Nico stops him. He stops him with a warm hand to Draco’s cheek, guiding him back up, pulling him into another deeper kiss—but stops him nonetheless. The kiss is nice though; open mouthed and hot. Nico’s hand sculpts to the back of Draco’s head, keeps him close and guides him, not breaking the kiss, back until they are falling onto the bed.

 

It is a tumble, Nico tipping backwards and Draco coming down on top. He catches himself with one knee and one hand, the other still feeling Nico up, their legs tangling together. Nico does a terrible job getting Draco naked. The sleeves of Draco’s shirt lace at the wrists into half-gloves. It is a wizarding fashion, practical when worn with robes, but frustrating when presented as a challenge to a drunk muggle who regards the whole thing as unnecessarily complicated medieval goth aesthetic.

 

His shirt ends up open and pushed down his arms, trapping his hands behind his back as Nico completely fails to divest him of the bindings and instead moves to focusing on sloppily kissing him and tackling getting him out of his trousers.

 

Draco squirms. ‘I’m gonna need—’ he starts, but cuts himself off with a groan as Nico takes him in hand.

 

Everything about how Nico is touching him tonight is loose, fumbling and messy, but it has been long enough that it feels like fire in Draco's veins. For what feels like too long he struggles against the way his arms are unintentionally caught behind him, squirms into the feeling of Nico's hand stroking his cock, winding him up, until it feels like he can't take it.

 

‘Nico, I want to touch you,’ Draco gets out, wriggling in an attempt to pull his hands from his sleeves. Nico just laughs, knee between Draco’s legs, half-pinning him as he rubs his thumb in slow circles over the tip of Draco’s cock, smearing precum. It’s distracting. But Draco does manage to get a grip on the trail end of one of the laces of his sleeve and, with some effort, pulls it loose and gets one of his hands free.

 

He sits up, gets his other hand out of its binding, and rolls over to climb back on top of Nico. He dives forward, kissing him aggressively, needily, and jerks his hips into Nico’s grip. He needs this. He _needs_ this. He knows he seems feral right now; half naked, intense and flushed with arousal. By contrast, Nico is loose and relaxed, now happily lying back on the bed and letting Draco basically fuck himself into his hand.

 

But that’s not what Draco wants. He doesn’t want a handjob, he doesn’t want to grind himself off on Nico’s body. Not right now. He wants to feel him inside him, feel that closeness again.

 

He moves his hand to the front of Nico’s open jeans and rubs his palm over his cock. He pauses.

 

‘Hm,’ Draco says.

 

‘Nah, it’s good,’ Nico replies. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

 

Draco frowns. ‘I’m just a little offended. And it would make this easier if—’

 

‘Don’t be. I’m just a bit slow to start tonight.’

 

With a raised eyebrow, Draco looks down and strokes Nico’s dick loosely, experimentally. Slow to start seems like an understatement. He’s not just half-hard—he’s completely unaffected. It’s never been like this before. Usually Nico is, if anything, well ahead of Draco. He’s a keen bean.

 

‘Can I suck you?’ Draco asks.

 

‘Can we just…’ Nico runs a hand through his hair. His other hand has stilled on Draco’s cock. ‘Focus on you for now?’

 

Narrowing his eyes, Draco says, ‘What I want is to sit on your dick.’

 

‘Well, great, but that’s not—’ Nico sighs. ‘That might not be happening tonight. I think I had a few too many.’

 

Incredulously: ‘How drunk _are_ you?’ They have fucked drunk a handful of times. The first time, at the club, they’d both been more or less three sheets to the wind. Since then, it hasn’t been uncommon to have a few drinks of an evening, and it’s never slowed anything down before. ‘If you’re that gone, I don’t want to be—’

 

‘I’m not pished,’ Nico objects. ‘Pissed. I just said pished as a joke, but I’m really not that bad.’

 

He sounds less than convincing, and now that Draco is looking for it, he can see the slack expression in his eyes, the lack of coordination in his movements. With a huff, Draco scoots off him and flops back onto the bed next to Nico. He reaches down to pull his pants up over his boner, then crosses his arms.

 

‘We don’t have to stop.’ Nico pushes himself up onto his elbow to look at Draco. ‘I want to get you off.’

 

‘I don’t want to get off,’ Draco replies. ‘I want to have sex. Where we’re both on the same page, and we want the same things.’ He looks at Nico shrewdly. ‘Do you even want me here?’

 

‘Yeah, of course. It’s just…’ Pressing a palm to his forehead, Nico groans. ‘’S just been a long day. I’ve been driving since eight in the morning, ‘n then it took ages to find the hotel and Beth got grumpy with Kitty ‘bout something really stupid… and the hotel couldn’t pull up our reservation for ages and we thought it had been lost. And it was all alright, yeah, once we got out to dinner and had some curries and some pints. I was looking forward to chatting with you when I got back here. But it’s all been a lot.’

 

Draco’s stomach sinks. ‘I didn’t realise.’  

 

‘It’s a lot,’ Nico says again. _‘You’re_ a lot.’

 

‘I can see how that might be the case. I didn’t think. Well, I _did_ think. I thought quite extensively about how much I wanted to be with you again.’ Draco sits up and nudges Nico’s shoulder so that he rolls onto his back to lie down with a soft _oof._ ‘You can just say no, you know.’

 

‘Don’t want to, though,’ Nico exhales. ‘I just… I’m not particularly mentally or physically prepared for a hard shag right now. You’re intense. You’re magically here, all of a sudden, when I was expecting to just crash out tonight.’

 

‘I’ll go,’ Draco says, trying to bite the disappointment back out of his voice and failing. He understands, theoretically—but it still stings to feel unwanted. Especially now. Especially today. ‘I wanted to start this better.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘You’re not running away from _me,_ right? That’s why I came up here, really. It was stupid. I could have splinched myself. But I was, ah, worried and I wanted to be reassured.’

 

Nico hesitates. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he admits. ‘I think I did purposely not tell you anything until I was far enough out of town that it was a done thing.’

 

‘Why?’

 

‘I don’t know. I was worried you’d throw a hissy about it, or something. Which, I mean, you kind of did.’

 

‘Did I?’

 

‘It felt like you didn’t want me leaving town because you wanted me to be with you. Now that I know you have magic teleportation powers it makes a bit more sense that you were so insistent about it, but for sure, I felt like I was leaving you in the cold and you were unhappy about that.’ Nico sighs. ‘And then that just freaked me out because, you know, I was just doing stuff with my mates and I didn’t want to feel bad for that.’

 

‘I see. Okay.’ Draco slides his legs off the side of the bed, looking around for his shirt. ‘I think this was a miscommunication, then.’

 

‘Do you want to go? You don’t have to.’

 

‘You’re tired,’ Draco says. ‘And drunk. And you want some space tonight, which I understand.’

 

‘I don’t want space. I’ve never wanted space in my entire life. I’m a classic extrovert. I’m knackered, but I’m good with you right here.’ Nico swallows. ‘I’d prefer it.’

 

With a nod, Draco gets to his feet and crosses the room back to the window, opening it again. He leans on the sill and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He’s still turned on, in spite of the change in mood—but he doesn’t particularly want to do anything about it, now.

 

He watches as Nico seems to melt into the bed, closing his eyes. Draco smiles to himself.

 

‘How come I didn’t know you could teleport?’ Nico asks, slurred into the pillow. He blinks slowly at Draco, half lidded.

 

‘Apparate. And I don’t know. It never came up. It’s convenient but unpleasant, and I certainly never felt confident to side-along you.’

 

‘You could tele—apparate me places?’  

 

‘Eh, theoretically. Or I could turn both of us into a pile of disassembled body parts. Not a toss up I’m willing to risk.’

 

They talk for awhile, just lazily about nothing in particular. It’s clear that for all his drunken exhaustion, Nico is still more interested in talking than sleep, which isn’t uncommon. But eventually he does sit up and shed himself of his jeans and climb under the blankets of the bed, yawning. And that is when Draco takes his cue to undress and climb in with him, leaving the window wide open behind him.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs as he pulls the blanket on the bed back and gets in. ‘For being pushy. And for—I really didn’t want you to feel like I was mad at you for heading out here. That was not my intention.’

 

Nico just closes the space between them and kisses him deeply. Then he lets Draco roll over and fits himself along his back, a heavy arm holding him close. ‘I want you right here,’ is all he murmurs before he passes out.

 

Draco exhales and melts back into the touch. Really, that’s all he wanted.

 

*

 

No. What he wanted was _this_ he realises at about four in the morning when he wakes up in the fresh, soft bed in roughly the same position as he went to sleep in but with a hard dick pressed into the curve of his arse.

 

He shifts, assuming Nico is still asleep. He’s wrong. As he moves he hears a low moan behind him and feels Nico’s breath on the back of his neck, shaky. He feels Nico roll his hips into the feeling, and then still.

 

Draco pauses. ‘Are you awake?’ he breathes out in a low voice. If Nico is asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him. But if he isn’t…

 

There’s a moment’s pause, and then just a hopeful: ‘... Are you?’

 

It starts as a half-asleep fumbling, kicking blankets down to the bottom of the bed when body heat gets too much. It is twisting around for open kisses and Nico tasting a bit like the beer he drank earlier but it not mattering at all. It is peeling off what is left of their clothes and lazy touches, Draco summoning lube and condoms and pressing them into Nico’s hand.

 

When Draco is face down on the bed, arse in the air and fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheet beneath him, he remembers what Nico said about him being quiet and bed and realises that it’s true. He can feel himself biting back moans with every time Nico thrusts inside him, and he wasn’t even quite aware he was doing it until suddenly he is.

 

Everything feels wonderful right now. Nico is pressed to him, thigh against thigh, the front of his body sculpted to Draco’s back. His mouth is open and damp against Draco’s shoulder, and his hips are snapping in a fast, deeply satisfying rhythm that has Draco—

 

That has Draco letting out a long, deep moan. It comes as a bit of a surprise, the loudness of the vocalisation startling both of them.

 

Nico moves one hand to tangle his fingers with Draco’s and thrusts deeper. _‘Yes.’_

 

‘Yeah,’ Draco moans. ‘Right there.’

 

The bed is squeaking beneath them, the metal frame against the wall setting a steady _thunk, thunk, thunk_ rhythm which Draco might feel more guilty about if he were remotely considering the other hotel occupants right now. He pushes himself up onto his elbow and moves his free hand under his body to stroke himself.

 

‘I want to hear you,’ Nico says into the shell of his ear, lightly nipping his earlobe. ‘I want to hear you come.’

 

It’s all so much, Nico heavy and hot over him, the deep thrusts only getting deeper when Nico nudges Draco’s knees further apart and repositions himself so that he’s filling Draco entirely down to the bone.

 

Draco lets out a surprised cry. And that cry spurs Nico into fucking him even harder, which has Draco grunting out loud, moaning, almost sobbing with pleasure. ‘Fuck,’ he pants. ‘That’s—’

 

‘Yeah, that’s it.’ Nico is close too, Draco can tell from the stuttering of his hips, the hot breathes on his neck. ‘Come for me, love. Out loud.’

 

It’s the _love_ that does it, but Draco won’t say that. But still, it does it, and he comes with a shout that’s only a little bit stifled by two of Nico’s fingers slipping inside his mouth as his hips snap faster—and then he’s still and Draco can feel the pulses of his cock inside him, pushing Draco through the last of his own orgasm which is now just messy trembling all over and a sticky spot on the bed below.

 

They sleep again after (when Draco has charmed the bed clean-ish), even heavier than the first time, naked and sprawled out as the morning sun rises.

 

Draco wakes, quite suddenly, to an unfamiliar voice crying out ‘Oh good lord!’ and a small chair cushion colliding with his shoulder. He opens his eyes blearily, squinting in the direction of the intrusion.

 

‘Kitty, don’t look—’

 

‘Why not—Oh, fuck me.’

 

Nico, sounding just as disoriented as Draco feels: ‘What are you two doing here?’

 

‘Coming to get you, for—’ Beth (it must be Beth), covers her eyes and turns around. ‘Cover up, Nico, I swear.’

 

Draco sits up, fumbling down at the base of the bed to pull up the blanket to cover both him and Nico for modesty. He blinks heavily and yawns. ‘Excuse me,’ he grouses. ‘I was under the impression that this was Nico’s room.’

 

Kitty, who had vanished behind the door, sticks her head back into the room and accuses: ‘It was you two last night! We heard you at five in the morning! Nico, you’re disgusting!’

 

‘I’m not…’ Nico objects, clearly still waking up. He picks up the cushion that Beth lobbed at him before and holds it against his chest as if it might hide the fact he’s naked.

 

‘You fucking _are.’_ Beth takes a step closer into the room. She lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘You were alone when we got in last night. You said you were going to bed. Where did you even find a guy to hook up with?’

 

Nico furrows his brow. ‘He… came to me?’

 

She grabs the pillow out of his hands and hits him with it again. And again, harder. ‘And what about—’ She looks at Draco apologetically. ‘No offense to you, whoever you are, but Nicolas. Nico, you said just yesterday that you were seeing someone. For real, for once. You said you have a boyfriend, now.’

 

That sends a shiver of pleasure up Draco’s spine and he can’t help the sudden warm grin that breaks across his face. He looks at Nico to confirm.

 

Nico looks very embarrassed. ‘Beth,’ he says. ‘This _is_ the boyfriend.’

 

Both Kitty and Beth’s attitudes shift completely at that. Kitty bounces back into the room, hands in the pockets of her black hoodie. ‘Wait, really? This is Draco?’

 

Draco waves.

 

‘Did you drive all the way up to be with Nico?’

 

Draco thinks. ‘Something along those lines.’

 

‘Ugh,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘That’s a completely different kind of disgusting. So, I guess you’re joining us this weekend?’

 

Draco glances at Nico, who shrugs questioningly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says slowly. ‘I’ll leave you lot to the cryptids and ghosts.’

 

Beth and Kitty both seem to find it quite odd that Draco would bother coming all the way up from London for one early morning shag. But he tags along to breakfast down in the dining area of the hotel, where there is a small continental buffet. He eats an uncomfortable amount of cereal and drinks room temperature tea. Beth is eager to get going. She is wearing an orange goose-down vest, hiking shorts, extremely ugly yet supportive boots and a bright blue bum-bag with a water bottle hanging off it, which stands in stark contrast to Kitty, who is wearing all black, striped thigh-high socks, and has her dyed-black fringe straightened over kohl-rimmed eyes.

 

Only one of them, Draco thinks, is taking the hiking aspect of cryptid hunting seriously. Kitty _does_ have an EMF detector though.

 

‘What are you going to do?’ Nico asks after breakfast, filling a backpack with packets of gorp, water and his camera. They are back in the hotel room, getting ready to head out. Nico, Beth and Kitty are driving down to the National Park and apparently will spend all day scouring nature for cryptid tracks which Draco thinks sounds patently awful.

 

‘I’m going antiquing,’ Draco replies, and does exactly that. Objectively, flitting around quaint antique shops for a weekend is rather pleasant—and when Nico is back at the hotel, having not successfully hunted any cryptids, climbing into bed and kissing him and having him kiss back is _wonderful_.

 

‘Did you get what you wanted?’ Nico asks, when Draco is still around on the Tuesday morning and has a jinxed accordion he liberated from a muggle antique shop, a set of 70’s cookbooks which are entirely for his own purposes and a small porcelain clown doll with painted cheeks and very little mystical energy, but a lot of charm.

 

‘Yes,’ Draco says sincerely. ‘I really did.’


	17. Chapter 17

The owl announces its presence with a series of sharp taps on the window, and Draco looks up, curious.

 

‘Bird,’ Nico comments. He only just showed up, letting himself into Draco’s flat right after finishing his shift at the café. He kicks off his shoes and double-takes at the window. ‘Cryptid!’

 

‘It’s not a cryptid, it’s an owl.’ Draco puts his book down and stands up, moving to let her inside.

 

‘It’s a great horned owl. They’re absent outside of the Americas, so she’s well outside her natural range. Also, it’s daytime and she’s not remotely sluggish.’ He holds out his hand as she hops inside, letter in her beak. ‘Hey,’ Nico coos at her. ‘How you doing, beautiful?’

 

She lets him pet her head, eyes closing happily as Draco comes over and takes the envelope from her beak. He leans over and kisses Nico in greeting. ‘You have low standards for cryptids,’ he murmurs—but the point that she’s native to America catches him, suddenly hopeful.

 

‘She’s so tame!’

 

‘Yes, I should hope so,’ Draco murmurs, opening the letter. It reads:

 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

 

_I’ve got to admit, yours is quite possibly the most confusing piece of correspondence I’ve received in my entire life._

 

_Yes, the doll in your photograph does ring a bell to me. If you are after the history of the item, here it is: I purchased it over fifty years ago as a gift to my niece-in-law. I did not end up giving it to her. My husband, bless his soul, went tragically to God shortly before her birthday and, in my grief, I fell out of contact with most of his family._

 

_To the best of my knowledge, the doll would have been given to a charity shop or similar along with a number of other items I did not take with me when I moved out of my dear late husband’s home._

 

_Beyond that, I’m afraid it means absolutely nothing to me. How in heaven’s name you connected it back to me, I am at a loss. I would be interested to hear, so please do feel free to write me back. I am an old witch and I don’t get the most interesting correspondence, so if you are the friend you claim to be, well, that is most welcome._

 

_If, on the other hand, you’re the nutcase you seem to be… well, that’s quite alright too. Tell me how on earth you linked me back to that old toy anyway._

 

_And don’t call me Bourdon, that’s my ol’ dead husband’s name. It’s just Melissa to you._

 

_Bless you._

 

Draco bites his nail as he reads the letter, and then reads it again, brow furrowed. He turns and looks at Melissa, the doll, and waves the letter at her. ‘Oy,’ he says. ‘What’s this about?’

 

‘What is it?’ Nico asks. ‘What’s the letter? Who’s it from?’

 

Draco points at Melissa. ‘Her,’ he replies. ‘I wrote to her a week ago, and this is her response. But it doesn’t make any bloody sense.’

 

Melissa, the doll, sits serenely on the top of the bookshelf, her dress fluttering in the breeze. Nico plucks the letter from Draco’s outstretched hand and scans over it, dumbfounded.

 

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Melissa—the real Melissa—is, what, alive?’

 

Realising that he still hasn’t explained the full situation to Nico, Draco takes the letter back and nods. ‘Yes, and she will be for the foreseeable future,’ he says, ‘because Melissa—the doll, that is, _our_ Melissa—is a horcrux.’

 

‘She’s not ours,’ Nico interjects. ‘She’s yours. Your flatmate, really.’

 

‘She is a preserved fragment of a witch’s soul,’ Draco says. ‘Created to preserve her eternal life after committing cold-blooded, premeditated murder. And yes, she’s my flatmate. Which means you should try to have a good relationship with her, if you’re going to be here all the time.’

 

‘We have a fine relationship,’ Nico says. ‘I’m slightly spooked by her. I think that’s a reasonable relationship to have with a murder-doll who lives with my boyfriend. Like, you’re creeped out by Louis.’

 

Draco blinks. ‘Who’s Louis?’

 

‘The guy who has the room opposite me and just wanks off to hentai all day.’

 

‘Oh, right, yes. Yes, true.’ Draco crosses the room and leans against the wall next to where Melissa is sitting, looking up at her. ‘But it makes no sense,’ he says, frustrated. ‘She said in the letter the doll means nothing to her. She just left it behind to go to a charity shop. You don’t do that with a horcrux, it’s insane. It’s a vessel for a part of your soul. The rational thing to do is protect it.’

 

‘I don’t get it,’ Nico says, following. ‘What is she exactly?’

 

‘Say you want to live forever, and you don’t mind killing to do so,’ Draco explains. ‘And you happen to be very learned in the dark arts, and also a psychopath. You can create a horcrux. It’s not advisable, in my opinion, but the way it works is this: when you commit a murder, your soul ceases to be whole. It breaks. If, as above, you are completely mental, you can put part of your soul, from the act of killing, into an object. Any object, theoretically, or even another living creature in some cases. That object then becomes a checkpoint of sorts. If your body dies, that part of your soul is saved somewhere else, protected.’ He frowns. ‘But as I say. You _protect_ it.’

 

‘Uh huh.’

 

‘What’s wrong?’

 

‘Just, you know. Obviously, I believe in, uh, the immortal soul, spiritual core of man, all that stuff. And like, that murder is bad for it, generally. But you’re speaking very literally.’

 

‘Yeah, I’m being literal,’ Draco replies. ‘I’m saying that you can literally, unambiguously, rend your soul into separate pieces and put them physically, magically, into objects.’ He pauses. ‘We might mean different things when we talk about souls,’ he adds. ‘I’m not sure. I’m talking about the thing that contains your life essence and can be eternally cursed if you kill a unicorn, stuff like that.’

‘I don’t think the church is big on killing unicorns either,’ says Nico. ‘But okay. This is a magic thing?’

 

‘Of course it’s a magic thing.’

 

‘And you’re telling me Melissa, what, killed someone?’

 

‘Her husband, I believe. A long time ago, like fifty years.’ He frowns. ‘It’s not like you just forget making a horcrux.’

 

‘Write back to her,’ Nico says. ‘I reckon she’s just covering her tracks, trying to throw you off her scent. Doesn’t want to go down for a crime she did half a century ago. She thought she’d gotten off scot-free.’

 

So Draco does write back to her.

 

‘Tell her about all the the blood,’ Nico says, looking over his shoulder as he writes.

 

‘No, I can’t put that on paper,’ Draco replies. ‘I don’t want to accuse her of anything, I just want to get to the bottom of this.’

 

‘You could just mail Melissa back to her. She probably wants her soul back, really.’

 

Draco looks at Melissa, perched on the bookshelf, and frowns. ‘Nah, I’d miss her,’ he says. ‘I’m keeping her safe, that’s what’s important.’

 

In the end, he writes a pretty vague letter that alludes, as best he can, to how he made the connection to her. He also adds, now feeling like he should, that he could return the doll to her if that’s what she wants.

 

The response he gets, a week or so later, is straight to the point. It says: _Draco, I think we should meet in person. I am too old to travel far, you’ll have to come to me. Please, bring the doll._

 

‘I can’t get to America,’ he says to Nico, feeling somewhat panicked. They are at the café: Nico is working, and the moment Draco received the owl and finished reading the letter he had left his flat and hurried directly to the shop. Now he is standing beside the front counter, watching Nico make drinks for the customers, and stressing himself out. ‘She lives in West Virginia. There’s no way I can get over there carrying a horcrux. Even if the Ministry does approve me for travel, they’re going to be checking everything I bring with me.’

 

‘Can’t you do the apparition thing?’ Nico asks as he froths some milk. He glances over the top of the machine. ‘Like, no offense, but this seems like a non-issue. You can literally teleport, my friend.’

 

‘First off, flattered you think I have limitless power,’ Draco says. ‘But it doesn’t work that way.’

 

‘Wait, you’re not all-powerful? Well, fuck, what am I doing with you?’

 

‘For context, me popping up to your hotel room the other week? That was incredibly stupid of me. Apparating is about visualisation, holding an image of a location in your mind and taking yourself there with purpose.’ Draco rubs his hand over his face. ‘Going somewhere you’ve never been before can be a crapshoot. In that case, it worked because I knew generally where and how far I was going, and I had you in the location to guide me. It was still a bit like, uh… shooting for a goal from the other end of the field.’

 

‘Alright…’

 

‘Trying to apparate to West Virginia would be like trying to score a goal from three suburbs over, facing the wrong way.’ Draco bites his lip. ‘Except with the worst possible outcome being materialising as a kidney, a few rib bones and a lopped off head, rolling down Spruce Mountain.’

 

‘Yikes.’ Nico winces, pouring out a large coffee and picking it up. ‘Yeah, maybe don’t do that, then. Hold on—’ He takes the coffee out to one of the tables, dropping it off, and comes back to the counter. ‘So, you can’t get approved for other sorts of travel?’

 

Draco cards a hand through his hair. ‘Can’t floo internationally. Portkeys are regulated. If I wanted to get one I’d have to put in an application and it’s just not going to happen. It would be months of waiting, with no guarantee I’d get the go-ahead. Again, the whole _ex-terrorist_ thing.’

 

Nico leans on the counter between them, brow furrowed. ‘Can you just… fly?’

 

Draco snorts. ‘Yes, sure, I’ll hop on a broom and take a quick jaunt across the Atlantic. Basically a day trip.’

 

‘Um, I meant a plane.’ He shrugs a shoulder. ‘I mean, I’m guessing you’re on a watch list for those, too…?’

 

‘Wait, one of those metal things? The muggle flying things?’ Draco makes a hand motion like something flying through the air and says, _‘Zoom?’_

 

‘Yeah, a… a plane. Do… do you know what a plane is?’

 

‘I just indicated that I did, didn’t I?’

 

‘Not like, reassuringly, no.’

‘We don’t travel by plane,’ Draco says. ‘Wizards. It’s insane to think that anyone would entrust their lives to a little tube of metal hurtling across the sky without any magic keeping it in the air.’

 

‘Commercial airlines are perfectly safe. It might not be magic, but it’s science and it works just fine. You’re safer in a plane than you are in your living room, statistically.’

 

‘You’ve flown before?’

 

‘Heaps of times. Honestly, the worst it gets is some turbulence and maybe having to watch a bad movie and eat some dodgy pie.’

 

‘Hmm.’ Draco considers Nico’s suggestion. ‘I doubt I’d be monitored travelling by muggle methods. That would never occur to the Ministry. Is there anything special I need to fly on a plane? Some sort of license?’

 

‘Just a passport,’ Nico says. ‘And money. But that should be fine for you, right? And a tourist visa probably—Hey, what can I get for you?’

 

Draco watches as Nico’s attention is drawn to a new customer, approaching the counter to order a couple of drinks to takeaway. He watches as Nico serves up two coffees to go and passes them across the counter, and then says: ‘How do I get a passport?’

 

‘You apply for one,’ replies Nico. ‘It’ll take a few weeks to get approved. But you’ll just need your birth certificate and stuff to prove citizenship. It’s not too painful, I’ll help out.’

 

Draco pulls a face. ‘Ah.’

 

‘What is it?’

 

‘Birth certificate,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure I have a muggle one.’

 

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You have to have something proving you’re a British citizen. Unless… Draco, you _are_ a British citizen, right?’

 

Draco doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘Yes, of course.’

 

_‘Draco.’_

 

‘I’m definitely a British _wizarding_ citizen,’ he says defensively. ‘It’s slightly different.’

 

‘This is bonkers,’ Nico tells him. ‘You have an entire secret government for like eleven thousand people. Is that really necessary?’

 

 _‘Yes._ We need independence. At least historically.’ He waves his hand. ‘There has to be a way around it anyway, I can probably get a muggle birth certificate done up. Squibs usually integrate into the muggle world, the processes have to be there. I’ll talk to Granger about it.’

  


*

  


Talking to Granger about it is a mistake.

 

‘Why do you need a passport?’ she asks. ‘You’re not going to get on an aeroplane any time soon.’

 

‘Shows what you know,’ he replies carelessly. He is leaning against the door to her office, after hours. Most people in the Ministry have gone home but, unsurprisingly, he was able to find Granger working late. ‘But that’s not the point, I’m just wondering what the best way to get a muggle birth certificate would be without clueing anyone into what I’m doing.’  

 

‘What you’re doing,’ Granger repeats, narrowing her eyes. ‘Which would be…?’

 

‘Visiting Melissa. Reuniting Melissa and Melissa. A kind, noble act.’

 

Granger gives him a long look. ‘You can request a muggle birth certificate at any time,’ she tells him. ‘From the Muggle Liaison Office. But are you implying that you’re planning to circumvent your travel restrictions by flying internationally with a horcrux in your possession to meet someone we know to be a murderer?’

 

Oops.

 

‘It was Nico’s idea,’ Draco says quickly.

 

‘You shouldn’t do this,’ she says. ‘If you just go through the proper channels, you’ll be allowed to travel eventually. Might be best to leave the doll behind, but…’

 

‘Oh, look at the time.’ Draco takes a step back out of the door. ‘But thanks, great chat. So useful. You’ve convinced me.’ Backing down the hallway, calling out to her. ‘You’ve got it, I’m going to do it completely above board.’

 

Malfoy!’ she shouts after him. ‘Malfoy, get back here!’

 

He hurries to the nearest fireplace and floos home.

  


*

  


‘Oy, you’re back,’ Em says, catching Draco by the elbow on the stairwell up to Nico’s room. She’s good at this, just nabbing people out of thin air.

 

Draco smiles down at her. He’s missed Em, he realises. Since he was last here she has changed her hair: naturally straight and jet black, she’s cut it into a bob and dyed it a rich ombre brown. It looks nice. She’s also got her tits pushed up to her chin with a lacy black bra that Draco can see literally all of.

 

‘I’m back,’ he confirms. ‘I like the whole…’ he gestures to her general head region. ‘Looks good.’

 

‘Thanks, babe. But we’ve got more important things to discuss, you and me.’

 

Draco takes a step back off where he’s one foot on the staircase and look at her curiously. ‘We do?’ For a moment, Draco wonders if he should ask Em about Nico. Part of him, a nagging, curious part wants to know if Nico was as much of a mess as he was himself while they were apart. Em would know, if anyone would. They are very close. He even opens his mouth to ask, but then closes it after a moment’s consideration. The answer isn’t going to make him happy, whatever it might be.

 

Em pokes him in the chest. ‘Are you up to date?’

 

‘Am I what?’

 

‘With Hollyoaks,’ she says. ‘Have you been watching?’

 

Draco laughs, startling himself. ‘No! No, you know I only watch it with you and Paulie.’ That’s not quite where his brain went when she said _important._

 

‘Oh my god, you have to catch up, then! Frankie and Jack are having a double wedding, with Jake and Becca. They just got engaged this week.’

 

‘Wait, since when? Like, _Frankie_ -Frankie? What happened with her and Jack, isn’t he widowed or something?’

 

‘Yeah, but he’s ready to move on—oh, we’ll catch you up later. Reckon you’ll be here tonight?’

 

Draco pauses. ‘Probably,’ he says. ‘Seven-thirty, right? I’m hoping to steal Nico for a few hours, he said he was home today.’

 

‘Yeah, go on then.’ She waves him off, tugging her sweatpants up where they’re slipping down her hips. But she rolls her eyes, smiling at him. ‘Glad you’re back, hun. I told Nico he’d made the wrong call ditching you.’

 

‘He didn’t,’ Draco says, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no-one else hears him. It seems too personal to admit out loud. ‘Don’t tell him that. I mean, he knows. But yeah, he was in the right.’

 

She gives him a hard look. ‘Was he right taking you back then? Or should you have stayed ditched?’

 

‘We’ll see, I suppose.’

 

‘What did you do, exactly? He didn’t say, he wouldn't talk about you at all.’ She squints. ‘You didn’t fuck around on him, did you?’

 

‘Bloody hell, no! I wouldn’t—’ Sighing, Draco shrugs. ‘Ideological differences that we’ve been sorting out,’ he gives as a vague explanation. ‘I’m shitty in a lot of ways, but not like _that.’_

 

‘Alright. Good.’ She nods firmly. ‘You’ll forgive me being protective. I’ve known Nico since we were in school, you know.’

 

Draco blinks in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he says.

 

‘Only since about Year 10. We weren’t really close before that. Or after, at least until he came back to England.’

 

There is a long, silent moment where she looks at him shrewdly, challenging, and Draco stares back, uncomfortable. He knows what she’s getting at, sort of. But he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to say. Finally he just says, ‘I know about Branford.’ And: ‘Stupid name.’

 

‘Stupider than _Draco_?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘He told you, then?’

 

‘Yeah, he did.’

 

‘Damn, that’s big. _And_ you got him to use the terrifying B-word, huh? Are you just really good in bed?’

 

‘That’s got to be at least partially it,’ Draco says. ‘I also have Sasquatch on speed dial.’

 

‘Oh, that it explains everything.’ Em reaches up and pats his head. ‘Nice to see your pointy posh face again. You gotta show up this evening, no excuses. Seven-thirty. Drama, weddings. Dannii is trying to get tickets to the festival, shits going down.’

 

Draco heads upstairs after talking to Em, holding his breath on the landing out of habit to avoid the smell of stale jizz from the room opposite. He opens the door to Nico’s room to find it dim, save for the glow from Nico’s laptop. Nico is sitting at the desk in front of his computer, headphones on, humming off key as he looks between a stack of books he has next to him and the document he has open—which seems to be a large body of text interspersed with some shadowy photos of blurry sea creatures.

 

Draco sneaks up behind him. Deftly, he reaches out to pull Nico’s headphone away from his head and leans in quickly to growl into his ear.

 

Nico’s reaction is instantaneous, and it takes Draco a moment to even register as the desk chair swivels on the spot and a strong arm comes out to grab him around the waist, pulling him forward to fall half onto Nico’s lap. Before he knows it, Nico’s hand is on the back of his head, pulling him into a sloppy kiss and Draco is scrambling to get purchase on the creaky chair to climb properly onto the seat.

 

‘I could have been anyone,’ he accuses into Nico’s mouth. ‘Do you just bodily molest any creature who sneaks up on you with malicious intent?’

 

Nico breaks the kiss, laughing. ‘Sure, basically.’ He lets Draco go, helping him maneuver so that they are both sort of on the chair at least, Draco sitting astride one of Nico’s thighs, a knee on the chair between Nico’s legs to balance himself. ‘What’s up?’

 

Draco leans back and looks seriously at Nico. ‘I have a proposition,’ he drawls. He licks his lips, nervous. ‘How would you feel about coming with me on an errand?’

 

Nico glances at his computer. ‘Uh, what sort of errand? I was going to finish this post up, today.’

 

‘I’m going to go request my birth certificate.’ He hesitates. ‘Or rather, give you the paperwork and get you to go in and ask for it for me. You’re just picking it up for a friend. No big deal, nothing to see here.’

 

‘You want me to lodge some paperwork for you?’ Nico asks, frowning. ‘Sounds a bit boring, mate. I do like the subterfuge angle, but…’

 

Draco huffs, puts his hands on Nico’s shoulders. ‘We won’t just be going to the post office, you realise,’ he tells him. ‘For clarity, I’m asking if you want to see wizarding London. And do some minor, mostly ethical crime. Well, not crime. Exploiting the loopholes in the system.’

 

Slowly, Nico reaches out next to him, not taking his eyes off Draco, and saves the document on his screen before closing the laptop. ‘Are you serious? I thought all this stuff was secretive, no non-magical people allowed?’

 

‘I don’t think we’ll _announce_ that you’re a muggle. Depending on how busy it is, people might not notice. If they do, you are with me.’ He pauses. ‘I have some conditions.’

 

Nico raises an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’

 

‘I realise the hypocrisy here, given, er, _me_... but while we are around wizards, we are just friends. I need to be careful about my image.’

 

The eyebrow goes higher. ‘Oh, your image.’ He cocks his head. ‘Are you out to your family?’

 

‘As gay? No, not really.’ Draco shrugs, repositioning himself to rest more comfortably on Nico’s lap. ‘They know. I mean, everyone does. But it’s a bit different to how it is out here. I mean, my _proclivities_ are pretty self-evident. It is still expected that I will settle down and marry a pureblood woman and produce an heir. I won’t be, obviously. But that’s the assumption.’

 

‘Right-o, then. And the other conditions?’

 

‘Just that you follow my lead and don’t bring attention to yourself. Hard, I know. Ugh, you’re too handsome. But if you are very, very good, I’ll take you to the bank afterwards and introduce you to a goblin.’

 

Nico’s face lights up. ‘A real goblin?’

 

‘Absolutely. Unfortunately the dragon escaped from the bank a while back, so we can’t get you a glimpse of that… but we can swing by the pet shop too, pat some kneazles, they’re always cute.’

 

‘Did you just say a dragon escaped from the bank?’

 

A shadow passes over Draco’s face. ‘Oh _yes,_ because bloody Potter always has to make the most dramatic possible exits. Can’t even leave the bank without doing it astride a dragon he has just freed from captivity. Fucking hell. I once caught him smuggling a baby dragon out of our school when he was eleven, you know? Ridiculous.’

 

‘I’m really sorry, but this Harry Potter guy sounds like the _coolest_ person ever.’

 

Draco deliberately does not mention that technically, Nico has met him. ‘He is not. Would a _cool_ person try to fight the most dangerous dragon in the world on a _broomstick_ in a school tournament?’

 

‘Uh, yeah. Yeah, definitely.’

 

Draco scowls. ‘He has stupid glasses and bad hair,’ he insists, and scowls harder when Nico starts smirking at him. ‘Stop that.’

  


*

  


Draco lied when he said they weren’t going to the post-office. They are. He wants to put as many layers between himself and the Ministry as he can, so rather than going directly to the Muggle Liaison Office, he intends to lodge the appropriate paperwork via the owlery in Diagon Alley, via Nico, and via bribe (if necessary). Not that it will make a huge difference in the end, but hopefully no one takes too much notice of Draco Malfoy requesting a muggle birth certificate, and he can slip effortlessly under the radar.

 

They walk down Charing Cross Road in the bright August sun, approaching the Leaky Cauldron. Nico is looking around curiously, as though wondering if a dragon is suddenly going to materialise through the throngs of muggle shoppers out on the street.

 

‘Am I going to know when we’re in, like, wizard town?’ he asks. ‘Is it much different?’

 

Draco chuckles. ‘You’ll know,’ he replies. ‘We’re nearly there, just through the pub up ahead.’ He nods his chin in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, which stands out between a couple of muggle stores half a block away. A record store on one side, a shoe shop on the other and between them, a rickety, wood panel and brick building jammed in like an artist ran out of space and had to cramp everything down to make it fit.

 

‘What pub?’

 

Draco glances at him before realising. ‘Oh, you can’t see it.’ He holds out his hand, inviting. ‘Just follow me, you’ll get it. This might be weird.’

 

He watches Nico’s reaction carefully as he approaches the door to the Leaky Cauldron. It is clear when he suddenly sees it, his grip tightening where he’s holding onto Draco’s hand—the moment doesn’t come until Draco is already pushing the door to the pub open. Nico sucks in a surprised gasp, and then lets out a breathless laugh.

 

‘Oh man, that’s cool.’

 

Draco lets his hand go. ‘See it now?’ he asks as they step inside.

 

Nico stares around the inside of the pub with intense interest. ‘Yeah,’ he says slightly distractedly. ‘Yeah, I’m with you.’

 

Lowering his voice, Draco reminds him: ‘Remember, act normal.’ He raises his voice to address the barman. ‘Good afternoon, Tom.’

 

Surprised: ‘Mr Malfoy! Don’t see you in here often.’

 

‘Just passing through,’ Draco replies, before glancing at Nico. ‘Unless you need a drink? Something stiff?’

 

Nico snorts. ‘I’m good.’

 

It’s quiet in the Leaky Cauldron, late morning, just before lunch-time. The tables are sparsely populated, but there are a few witches and wizards scattered around, reading the prophet and finishing drinks. A couple of them have glanced up at Tom’s exclamation of his name, but Draco holds his head high and doesn’t look directly at anyone.

 

He leads Nico to the courtyard outside with a guiding touch to his arm. ‘Ignore them,’ he mutters, when someone starts whispering to their companion, eyes trained on Draco.

 

‘Do people often stare at you?’

 

‘Not in a good way,’ Draco answers dully. He pulls out his wand. ‘It’s not too bad, these days.’

 

In the brief privacy of the walled off courtyard, Nico puts an arm around him and bumps his nose to Draco’s temple. Then he looks around. ‘Why are we out back with the bins?’

 

Draco taps his wand to the wall in answer. The bricks spiral open, stones shifting and resetting themselves until they form an archway—and on the other side, a street that Draco has been down so many times that Nico’s expression of rapt interest seems somewhat undeserved.

 

‘Diagon Alley,’ he drawls, stepping through. ‘I’ll take you somewhere cool, some time. For now, this will have to do.’

 

Nico laughs, gazing around. Watching where his eyes go is almost like seeing the place with fresh eyes. Draco has to reach out and pull at the back of Nico’s shirt when he starts to veer vaguely in the direction of the potions supply store, where jars with preserved, gruesome parts of magical creatures are stacked in the dusty windows. But overall Nico is doing a fairly good job of staying cool—Draco can still see the way his gaze is flitting everywhere, all at once, taking everything in.  

 

He stands out a little bit, too, which isn’t ideal. It’s been long enough since Draco immersed himself in wizarding London in the middle of a busy day that he forgot how _different_ muggles could look. Around them is a sea of brightly coloured pointy hats, flowing robes, wands, jewel-toned cloaks. Younger wizards wear bits and pieces of muggle fashion sometimes, passing them by—but always eclectically, always under robes or paired with dragonhide boots, or just looking _wrong._ Nico, meanwhile, looks flawlessly, undeniably muggle. He is wearing a graphic t-shirt, three wolves howling at the moon, and camo print cargo shorts. Maybe, Draco thinks, looking at him fondly, he should have asked him to change before they left.

 

Draco has an itch on the back of his neck like people are watching him—them—as they walk down the street. He can’t quite _catch_ them looking too closely, but he has the undeniable impression that they’re not going unnoticed. Draco Malfoy, reclusive and infamous pureblood heir, walking down the street with someone this obviously, conspicuously, _not_ pureblood.

 

His paranoia turns out to be legitimate, as he finds out just as they are a block or so away from the owlery and he suddenly feels himself snatched by the arm and pulled into the shadowy space between two buildings.

 

His shout of alarm catches Nico’s attention: he spins on his heel, looking around in confusion for a moment before catching sight of Draco and rushing over.

 

Draco spins to meet his assailant and lets out a frustrated groan. Granger is standing there, wand drawn, wearing a very, very stern expression.

 

‘You’re making a bad decision, Malfoy,’ she says.

 

‘What the _hell?’_ he shoots back. ‘Are you stalking me? How did you know I was coming here?’

 

‘Because I put a twenty-four hour trace on you after you ran out on me yesterday,’ she says. ‘And I happen to know that you picked up those forms you have in your cloak on your way out of the Ministry.’

 

Draco gapes and splutters. ‘You—you what?’ His hand reflexively goes to the scroll of papers he has stashed in his cloak, checking that she hasn’t summoned them away from him in the last twenty seconds. ‘You can’t just put a trace on me like that.’

 

‘I can.’

 

‘Not _legally._ ’

 

She points at him. ‘You’re doing something more illegal.’

 

‘So that makes it _okay?_ Are you touched in the head?’

 

‘Uh, what’s going on?’ Nico interjects, coming up alongside Draco. He gives Granger an odd look. ‘Did she just snatch you out of mid-air?’

 

‘Yes, she did, because she has a problem with me _requesting my birth certificate from the post office.’_

 

‘Oh, come on Malfoy, don’t be obtuse.’

 

‘I’m doing nothing wrong!’

 

‘You’re slipping back into old habits,’ she says. ‘As soon as it’s convenient—’

 

‘That’s _not_ what this is about, Granger.’ He exhales a breath and cards both hands through his hair. ‘Come on.’

 

‘Alright, time to fill me in.’ Nico pokes him in the ribs. ‘Draco.’

 

Draco sighs, slumps his shoulders and gestures at Granger. ‘This is Hermione Granger. Granger, this is my boyfriend Nico.’

 

‘I figured,’ Granger replies, but holds her hand out. ‘Nice to meet you, Nico. He doesn’t shut up about you.’

 

Nico glances at Draco, eyebrow raised. Draco flushes. ‘Shove off,’ he mutters. ‘You know it’s true.’

 

‘How’s it going?’ Nico says to Granger, shaking her hand. ‘Oh, you’re the one who keeps giving Draco the awesome books, right? I’ve been reading them when he’s done, they’re fascinating.’

 

Granger’s expression clears slightly, perking up. ‘Really? Which ones have you finished?’  

 

‘A bunch, but I really liked that one about the the class considerations of lycanthropy, the one by Babcock—’

 

‘That one is fantastic! If you enjoyed it, you should read—’

‘Good lord,’ Draco interjects. ‘We’ll be here all day.’ He glances around at the narrow alleyway where they stand, mostly concealed from the street and unnoticed. ‘And I don’t really want to live the rest of my life out in this alleyway. Come on Nico, let’s get to the owlery. Granger, do feel free to move along.’

 

‘I will _not,’_ she says, reaching out to grab his wrist. ‘Malfoy, don’t do this. Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in if you get caught trying to circumvent the restrictions on you?’

 

‘They’re bullshit restrictions anyway,’ Nico says. ‘He’s just spending a few days meeting up with a friend. She’s like ninety years old, she can’t come here.’

 

‘He’s smuggling illegal dark objects internationally.’

 

‘Smuggling is a strong word,’ Draco says. ‘Let’s call it “secretly transporting”.’

 

‘That is literally what smuggling is.’ Granger looks accusingly at Nico. ‘I was under the impression that you were a _good_ influence on him.’

 

‘How dare you,’ Nico says. ‘I’ve never been a good influence in my whole life.’

 

‘If you get caught—’

 

‘We won’t get caught,’ Draco insists, and turns to look at Nico. ‘I’ll give you the papers now, okay? Ignore Granger, being a stick-in-the-mud is fun for her.’

 

‘You’re making him do it _for_ you?’ Granger asks, as Draco pulls out the scroll of parchment he has filled in requesting his birth certificate.

 

‘He isn’t making me,’ Nico answers, holding his hand out for the papers. ‘Trust me, I wouldn’t help him with anything unethical. I’m a man of morals.’

 

‘Take this money too,’ Draco says, giving him a handful of Galleons. ‘Offer them a bit extra to hurry it along.’

 

‘Sweet,’ says Nico.

 

‘That’s a _bribe,’_ Granger says.

 

‘These coins are weird. Do I just give all of them, yeah?’

 

‘Start with three Galleons,’ Draco replies and points to the gold coins in Nico’s palm. ‘These ones. But read the room, remember, just mostly act dumb, don’t draw attention to yourself.’

 

‘Malfoy, this is ridiculous. You’re sending a muggle into a wizarding shop with money he doesn’t know how to use, how do you expect him not to draw people’s attention?’

 

Nico pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on. ‘Like this,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’

 

‘Take those off,’ Draco says. ‘Wizards don’t wear sunglasses.’

 

‘Not even in summer?’

 

‘That’s what the wide brims of the hats are for, babe.’

 

‘That makes sense.’

 

‘No it doesn’t,’ Granger says. ‘Nico, don’t do this for him.’

 

‘Oh no,’ Nico says, edging out of the alleyway towards the street. ‘I’m doing it. It’s too late to stop now.’

 

‘He could go to _prison.’_

 

‘The bureaucratic barriers between wizarding society and the rest of the world only serve to reinforce a sense of otherness when your lot interacts with us,’ Nico says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. ‘I’m helping to dismantle barriers and build what I see as a more equitable world.’

 

Draco kisses his cheek. ‘And I love that about you.’  

 

‘I’ll tell the Ministry,’ Granger informs Draco as Nico winks, finger guns, and exits the alleyway to approach the owlery.

 

‘I’m going to go watch him,’ Draco says. ‘Make sure he’s alright.’

 

Granger follows, lowering her voice as Draco approaches the window of the shop, pressing himself against the wall and peering inside, out of sight. ‘Or I’ll tell Harry.’

 

‘What’s Potter going to do? He’s not an auror. He could set some twelve year olds on me, maybe.’ He feels Granger come up alongside him, also stealthily watching what is going on inside the shop.

 

Nico has approached the counter, scratching his neck as he fumbles for the scroll of parchment. Draco can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can see the look of confusion on the postmaster’s face as Nico trips over his words and drops the form to the ground.

 

Draco shakes with laughter. ‘Oh, Merlin,’ he murmurs.

 

‘I can’t believe you,’ Granger says. ‘This could go so badly.’

 

Nico bends and picks the parchment off the ground, finally managing to pass it over the counter. The postmaster reads it, nods, and pulls out his wand, flicking the form into a tube on the wall.

 

‘Don’t go for the bribe,’ Draco murmurs. ‘This is good, this is fine.’

 

Nico seems to hesitate for a moment, hand hovering at his pocket, but then he pauses, thanking the postmaster, and turns to leave. He puts his sunglasses back down as he comes outside.

 

Draco hurries to the door. ‘You did great,’ he says, as Nico rubs a hand over his own face. ‘That was perfect.’

 

‘I didn’t give him the money,’ Nico admits. ‘I thought I’d be pushing it, he was already giving me weird looks.’

 

‘I saw,’ Draco says. ‘Good call. Don’t worry about it.’

 

He hears Granger huff at his shoulder. ‘If one or both of you ends up in front of the Wizengamot because of this, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

 

‘We won’t,’ Draco says. ‘If you can keep your mouth shut.’

 

She sighs. ‘Malfoy, I support you finding Melissa and going to see her, I just… is this really the best way to go about it?’

 

‘You’re in on it now,’ Nico says. ‘You’re officially an accomplice. Snitches get stitches, Hermione.’  

 

She gives him a hard look. ‘You’re just as bad as he is,’ she tells him. ‘I can’t believe he found you.’

 

Nico looks to Draco. ‘Still up for visiting the pet shop?’ he asks.

 

‘Bank first,’ Draco replies. ‘And then after we can get some celebratory drinks at the Leaky Cauldron for a job well done.’

 

‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ Granger says with an audible eyeroll. ‘Malfoy, my objection to all your life choices remains on the record.’

 

‘Fair,’ Draco says.

 

The afternoon passes wonderfully, from Draco’s perspective. It’s not like any day he’s had in Diagon Alley before. It’s not like any day he’s had _anywhere_ before. He’s gone out with Nico plenty of times, but always in the muggle world. He’s not sure what he expected—childlike wonder, perhaps?

 

Nico doesn’t really do kid-in-a-candy-shop glee. But he’s engaged and enthusiastic in a way that makes it hard not to get caught up and carried along in his demeanor. In Gringotts he clicks almost immediately to the complex systems of respect that are best observed when interacting with goblins: systems Draco himself realises he’s been mostly unobservant of over the years. He’s always known how to get business done with goblins, because he has to—but he’s never much cared to give them much effort beyond that.

 

He needs to do some transfers between his Gringotts accounts anyway, so he takes Nico with him down to his vaults—and it’s on the ride down he realises just how ignorant he has been as he listens to Nico’s polite, perfectly phrased questions and hearing him get in return from Yogrick, the goblin escorting them, the clearest, least obfuscating responses he has ever heard a goblin give to _anything._

 

It’s all stuff Draco knows—where the money is kept, how the bank operates, what happened with the dragon—but hearing it from a goblin, fed through Nico’s personable, responsive questioning is _very_ new.

 

He has the strong feeling, also, that Yogrick is fully aware Nico is a muggle and should not really be here or know these things. But the goblin, discerningly, says nothing.

 

‘I can’t believe I just met a real goblin,’ Nico says afterwards, as they leave the bank. ‘That was incredible.’

 

 _‘You’re_ incredible,’ Draco corrects emphatically. ‘Goblins aren’t generally fond of humans, to put it mildly.’

 

‘No?’

 

‘Centuries of animosity. There have been goblin rebellions. We don’t let them use wands. That sort of stuff.’

 

‘You don’t _let_ them?’

 

‘No, it’s—oh, wow, that’s fucked up, isn’t it? We treat wands as symbols of power, you see. In some places wizards generally don’t use wands either, and they’re always viewed as less civilised, less developed. And then here, we restrict wands from any non-humans to demonstrate our superiority over them and mark them as others.’

 

‘I’m guessing that cuts them off from pursuing careers outside of, what? Do all goblins just work at the bank?’

 

‘Pretty much? I think they prefer it that—no, that’s also a fucked up thing to say, isn’t it?’

 

‘I’m so glad you caught yourself, mate.’

 

Draco frowns to himself, thinking. They are wandering down towards the magical menagerie now, passing through the crowd easily. Nico is looking at him with a curious expression, listening intently. ‘There’s a shortage of jobs in the wizarding world,’ Draco says slowly. ‘I don’t know… we have basically three options. Work for the Ministry, work for the school, or start some sort of independent boutique. I think… I think people would panic if suddenly there was an influx of goblins, or anyone else, into the job market. People would feel like they were being pushed out.’

 

‘And that would build more animosity.’

 

‘It definitely wouldn’t be smooth sailing.’

 

Nico cocks his head. ‘Which are you? Ministry, school or independent? I just realised I barely know what you _do_.’

 

‘I’m filthy rich,’ Draco answers as though it’s obvious. ‘Aside from that, I suppose I’m independent. I buy, repair and sell antiques. It’s mostly hobby, but it does turn a profit. I also have muggle shares which I make a separate income off. That mostly just runs on its own in the background, but it keeps me in muggle cash without having to go through Gringotts.’ He leans in closer. ‘Don’t tell the goblins about that, they’d hate it.’

 

‘So you’re unemployed?’

 

‘I am a layabout elite,’ Draco corrects smoothly.

 

When they reach the Menagerie, they find it crowded with people. Apparently one of the shop’s kneazles has just had a litter of kittens, and they are all pouncing around the shop, loose and playful. Nico’s attention, however, is immediately taken with the enormous jewelled snail at the window, the body of which is a slimy, deep forest green mass that is about as large as Nico’s entire arm. It’s snitch sized eyes sway on enormous tentacles, watching Nico closely as he crouches next to it, inspecting it with fascination and patting its shell gently, completely absorbed.

 

Draco has managed to lure two kneazle kittens onto his shoulders and head and doesn’t think a snail is that great, because he has a tiny ball of fluff licking his ear and another about to fall asleep against his neck. ‘Look, look,’ he says, poking Nico’s shoulder. ‘Nico, stop patting the gross slug and look at the kittens.’

 

Glancing up, Nico grins. ‘They’re very cute.’ He looks back at the snail. ‘This is amazing though, usually snail shells are formed from calcium carbonate, but look at the gemstones that have grown in here and here, they’re beautiful, but they’re not—’

 

Half-listening to Nico’s spiel about snail biology, Draco sits down next to him and plays with the kittens in his lap. Kneazle kittens are ridiculous—they are almost completely round, tiny stumpy legs and small fluffy tufts for tails, their faces completely squished flat. ‘You know that snail is probably poisonous, right?’ he interrupts after a while.

 

Nico pulls his hand off the shell immediately. ‘Is it?’

 

‘We’d have to ask the shopkeeper.’

 

‘Why would it just be out and about? Around children?’ Nico asks, appalled.

 

Draco shrugs. ‘Gotta learn ‘em sooner or later.’ He laughs at Nico’s expression. ‘Don’t worry, everything wizards do is terribly and unnecessarily dangerous. Have a kitten.’ He throws the little tabby in his hands into Nico’s lap.

 

‘Is this poisonous as well?’

 

‘No, not at all. Kneazles will actually protect you from a lot of dangerous magical crap.’ Draco pokes the kitten in its round belly. ‘Not this one yet though, it’s only three weeks old. Stupid thing, can barely walk.’

 

Despite now knowing that it might kill him, it takes a lot of effort to drag Nico away from the snail, but eventually Draco manages to get him around the rest of the shop. There is a shelf full of hats full of rabbits that Nico considers tacky and too on the nose, but he’s very interested in the puffskeins and nifflers and the oozing, croaking toads. Draco carries the kittens around the store and, between enjoying Nico’s absolute delight and the fact that he loves these kneazles more than he has ever loved anything in his life, by the time they have been inside the shop nearly forty-five minutes, it is Nico that has to shepherd him towards the door.

 

Draco struggles to leave the kittens behind. ‘I want them,’ he tells Nico, holding them both to his chest. ‘Look, this one has fallen asleep on me.’

 

‘It’s up to you,’ Nico says fairly. He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘But are they going to _get along with dogs,_ if you know what I mean?’

 

Draco shakes his head, looking sadly at the kittens. ‘Probably not…’

 

‘And can you commit to raising something that’s going to live for probably at least 15 years or so?’

 

‘Kneazles usually live well into their forties,’ Draco informs him.

 

‘Gosh, okay.’ Nico plucks one of the kittens out of Draco’s hands. ‘Come on, let's put them back, you’ve just triggered _my_ commitment issues.’

 

At the counter, Draco has to very, very slowly extract the sleeping kitten from where it has folded itself into the nook between his cloak and the corner of his arm. ‘I can’t do it,’ he whines. ‘I have to take him.’

 

‘These kittens aren’t actually available yet,’ the shopkeeper says. ‘We’re not selling them until they’re at least eight weeks old. You can put your name on the list, if you like.’

 

Relief washes through Draco, and with one last gentle tug he wakes up the sleeping kneazle and deposits it unsteadily onto the counter, where it waddles in the direction of the cushion where its littermates are sleeping. ‘Oh no, that’s fine,’ Draco says. ‘I’ll have forgotten entirely about it by then, thank you.’

 

Nico laughs, and the shopkeeper nods. ‘Can we interest you in anything else, Mr Malfoy?’

 

‘The snail—’ Nico starts, but Draco pushes him to the door with a sharp: _‘Nope!’_

 

It’s surprisingly easy, Draco finds, to do this. Bring Nico into his world. They end the afternoon with early dinner and drinks in the Leaky Cauldron, as promised, and with a commitment to get home before half past seven, also as promised, to catch Hollyoaks. Draco has been careful all day not to be too openly affectionate—but at a table in a dark corner of the pub, with a pint of steaming stout in front of him and the warmth of a good day behind him, it’s hard to keep it up.

 

‘What do you think?’ he asks. They are sitting in a booth, and it makes it easy for Draco to scootch closer and press his leg to Nico’s under the table, nudging him with the toe of his boot. He asks the question lightly, but he knows that a sharpness comes through in his voice. A need for approval.

 

Nico opens his mouth immediately and Draco gets the distinct impression he’s about to make a joke—but then he seems to catch himself, noticing that Draco is serious. ‘It’s genuinely really fucking cool,’ Nico says. ‘I saw a huge snail today, I could not be happier.’ He puts an arm across the back of the booth. ‘So this is like… your world, huh?’

 

‘This is it,’ Draco says. ‘I mean, part of it, obviously. There are better parts. Even Hogsmeade is a tad nicer than Diagon Alley, to be honest. Especially in the winter, when it’s covered in snow and the shops are warm.’

 

‘It seems like—’ Nico pauses. ‘I dunno, it seems like you miss it. I know we’re right here, but…’

 

‘I miss what it was,’ Draco says, picking up his stout. ‘No, that’s not… I miss how I used to feel about it. It’s obviously never been, er, _magical_ to me, if that makes sense? It’s always just been home. But it was something I had a right to, a place in. I knew it was special, and I knew I was special.’ He takes a drink. ‘Then after _you know_ , it just became a burden and I started to resent it.’

 

‘Bummer,’ Nico says.

 

‘But I feel like it’s changed a bit again lately,’ he adds. ‘I’m seeing it with new eyes. Different things are good, now. It doesn’t feel quite so much like a prize I was born into.’ Draco prods Nico. ‘What was growing up in the muggle world like?’

 

‘Uh…’ Nico squints, plucking a chip from the basket they’re sharing. ‘Pretty normal, I guess.’

 

‘Not for me.’

 

‘Not for you, true. What do you want to know? About my family?’

 

‘Sure.’

 

‘Well, my parents moved over here just before I was born, with my older sister. Papai got offered a job at a university in London, he’s an academic. We grew up alright. Never had a lot of money, but never too little.’ Nico stops himself, taking a drink and looking shrewdly at Draco. ‘Do you really want to hear my whole life story?’

 

Draco raises an eyebrow. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

 

Nico shrugs. ‘It’s a bit boring I guess. There’s no werewolves in it until fairly recently.’

 

‘Thank fuck.’

 

Nico grins around a small handful of chips. ‘So I was the middle kid of three. Two sisters, I think you know that already. I’m five years younger than Renata, and then Tatiana is five years younger than me. I had a bit of a rough time in primary school. I was too fat and too black and too much of a geek. I always had friends and stuff, and I was a class clown and little shit. But I knew I was just the weird one, you know?’ He laughs. ‘And then high school happened and I got hit by a freight train of puberty pretty much the moment I turned eleven. I was taller than half the teachers by the end of Year 7.’

 

‘When wizards are in our first year,’ Draco says. ‘We get Sorted. You don’t do anything like that, do you?’   


Nico hesitates, picking up his beer. ‘Er, what do you mean?’

 

‘Into school houses,’ Draco says.

 

‘Oh yeah, right. Nah, my school didn’t do that. It was a Catholic school, but not like, an old posh one.’ He shrugs. ‘Not that only posh schools do that stuff. But yeah, we didn’t.’

 

‘Do you know how they Sort?’ Draco asks, curious. ‘In the ones that do? If you don’t have magic?’

 

Nico bites his tongue. ‘I’m getting this slightly ominous feeling,’ he says. ‘That you’re about to say that in the wizarding world sorting means like, engaging students in a series of dangerous magical challenges to prove their mettle or something.’

 

Draco snickers. _‘No._ Though we do tell muggleborns that. It’s funny, and they get really nervous. We just have a magic hat that reads our minds as tells us where we belong based on our personalities.’

 

‘How much of what you say is just you fucking with me?’

 

‘Only like, twenty percent,’ Draco says. ‘Probably less.’

 

‘Alright, go on then. Magic houses, what do they mean?’

 

‘Where you sleep at school, who you go to classes with. But because everyone goes to the same school and because of the magic mind-reading hat thing, it’s all pretty loaded and sticks with you for life. It’s one of the first things you ask someone you’re getting to know, what house they were. It tells you a lot about someone.’

 

‘What house were you in?’

 

‘Slytherin.’ Draco does air quotes. ‘We’ve got a bit of a bad rap. There’s a lot of blood politics mixed up in all this, but at the core, Slytherins are ambitious, cunning, discerning, traditional. The founder of our house also built a secret chamber under our school with a basilisk in it, which might interest you.’

 

Nico drops his chip. ‘A basilisk!’

 

‘Don’t get too excited, Potter killed it. Apparently.’

 

‘Is there anything Harry Potter _can’t_ do?’ Nico says wistfully.

 

Draco narrows his eyes. ‘You’re doing this to me deliberately aren’t you?’

 

Nico winks. ‘What are the other houses then?’

 

‘Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,’ Draco answers. ‘Ravenclaw is knowledge and wit. Gryffindor is douchebaggery, buffoonery and pig-headedness. Hufflepuffs exist, I suppose, but I couldn’t pick one out of a crowd for the life of me.’

 

‘And this is all worked out when you’re like, eleven or twelve, yeah?’

 

‘Yeah.’

 

‘What if you grow and change?’

 

‘Doesn’t happen,’ Draco says, picking up some chips. ‘No one develops as a person. Don’t be ridiculous, who you are when you’re eleven is who you are for life.’

 

‘What house would I have been in, you reckon?’

 

Draco leans back in the booth and looks Nico up and down. ‘You’re a Ravenclaw,’ he says, after a moment's consideration. ‘Which is fortunate, because they’re the only other tolerable house. You are fair like a Hufflepuff, but I don’t think you have any of their other traits, if they even _have_ other traits or real personalities. There is nothing Slytherin or Gryffindor about you whatsoever, which is for the best.’

 

This is fun,’ Nico says. ‘It’s like a MBTI thing. Ravenclaw sounds good, I’m cool with that.’

 

‘Ravenclaws are into originality, creativity, challenging conventional wisdom. Seeking out knowledge.’

 

‘I’m also a Scorpio.’

 

‘Hm, I’m a Gemini,’ Draco replies. ‘Not especially compatible, but I never much cared for Divination.’ He finishes his stout and flags down Tom for another one. ‘Tell me more about growing up,’ he says. ‘What’s muggle school like? I know the subjects are different, what were you good at?’

 

They talk for what feels like hours—it might _be_ hours. Nico, it turns out, was good at pretty much everything at school. He played the sports real good. He took Portuguese for six months in his first year of high school before the teacher caught on he was already fluent and he was forced to switch to Spanish, and then added Latin as well because he felt bad for getting off easy. He was very into watching UFC Wrestling and moderated a _Yahoo!_ fan mailing list on the internet. He realised he was gay in 1991 during a school football match, when a boy on the opposing team scored a goal and lifted his shirt over his head in celebration, and Nico got so distracted he nearly kicked a pigeon instead of the ball. He came out to his little sister Tatiana years before he told anyone else, and when he was seventeen he had a (in retrospect extremely stupid looking, but at the time pretty cool) pimped out mountain bike in garish yellow, blue and chrome gold with leopard print pattern covering the frame. He would pick Tatianna up from school on it and give her a dink home, and Tati would always laugh at her friends for trying to flirt with her older brother.

 

Because they are sitting in a booth and because they are at the very back of the pub, Draco decides after a few large pints that they have enough privacy that he can put both his legs across Nico’s lap and twine their fingers together as they talk, closer and more intimate.

 

‘This was a good day,’ he tells Nico in the end, pulling him into a sweet kiss. ‘Thank you.’

 

Nico pulls back enough to bump their noses together. ‘Back to my place?’ he asks, warm breath on Draco’s lips.

 

Draco unfolds himself from the booth, stretches, and they leave—comfortable and happy.

 

He does not notice the curious gaze of other patrons lingering on them, and he did not notice at any point the flash of cameras. So he leaves the Leaky Cauldron with an unjustified sense of calm.


	18. Chapter 18

Draco does not get the Daily Prophet delivered. Hasn’t for ages. He picks it up occasionally when he is out and about and scans a few headlines, but aside from that, reading the news frequently seems like an exercise in bringing unnecessary irritation and anxiety into his life. 

 

So it takes three days for him to hear anything, and when he does it is via his parents. He does not even realise there is a cause for alarm when he gets a short owl from Narcissa asking if he’ll come visit for dinner. 

 

He receives the note early in the morning while still in bed and lets the eagle owl drink from the glass of water on his side table as he unfolds and reads it. Nico is beside him, barely awake. He had blinked his eyes open at the sound of hooting, and is now squinting blearily at Draco from the pillow, hair mussed up. 

 

‘Oh,’ Draco says. ‘I won’t be coming along to your practice this evening. I’ll be at the manor, apparently.’ 

 

‘S’fine,’ Nico mumbles. ‘You don’t have t’ come to them anyway, y’know.’ 

 

‘No, I just enjoy watching you run around in shorts and getting all sweaty,’ Draco says as he summons a quill and writes a note back to mother that he’ll be there at six, giving it to the owl. He rolls over in bed to face Nico as the bird ruffles its feathers and departs. ‘It’s very enlightening.’

 

‘That’s gay,’ Nico yawns. ‘What are you going to  _ the manor  _ for?’ He says “the manor” pompously, affecting a posh tone that doesn’t at all suit him, and Draco scowls.

 

‘Just to see my parents. What should I say, Nico? It  _ is  _ a manor. What else am I going to call it?’

 

Nico closes his eyes again. ‘Just say you’re going croqueting on the horses out by the badminton stable.’ 

 

‘None of those are words,’ Draco objects. ‘What the fuck is a badminton?’ He shuffles closer, pushes his leg between Nico’s and slings an arm over his waist. ‘You have to get up for work,’ he reminds him. 

 

‘Do I need to have a shower?’ 

 

Draco buries his face in Nico’s armpit and lets out a happy moan. ‘Yes,’ he confirms. He breathes in deeply, pressing closer. ‘Fuck, you smell amazing.’ He pushes his leg up between them. ‘Do me.’ 

 

Nico moans. ‘Time?’ 

 

‘It’s six-thirty.’ 

 

‘I can do you  _ or  _ have a shower, not both.’ 

 

Draco snorts. ‘If you do me, you are going to  _ have _ to shower. You’re already ripe since last night.’ He presses his lips to Nico’s chest and strokes his fingers down through the hair on his stomach to his happy trail. ‘But you need to shower anyway, so it may as well be both.’ 

 

‘Oh man, the fact you never formally learned math is really betraying itself,’ Nico mutters, but opens his eyes. He rolls them over so that Draco is on his back and pushes his legs apart. He slips his hand between them. ‘ _ Fuck _ ,’ he breathes emphatically. ‘You’re still kinda ready for it, aren't you?’ 

 

‘Mmm.’ Draco tilts his hips up and reaches out one hand to grab his wand from under the pillow, summoning a condom. ‘Just like this,’ he murmurs. ‘Don’t need more, I want to feel you.’ 

 

He does—feels the stretch of Nico pushing inside him a few moments later. It’s inelegant, quick and a bit sloppy, the bed creaking underneath them with every thrust. Buries his face in Nico’s armpit and licks him, bathing in the heavy scent of him. Draco comes first, a deep feeling that curls up through his stomach like a flower unfurling to the sun, groaning through his release. Nico finishes deep inside him, body weight mostly collapsed on Draco, heavy and warm. 

 

It is only a couple of days until the full moon, and Draco lies in bed even after Nico has rushed to the bathroom with only fifteen minutes to get ready and get down the street to open the café. Draco buries his face in the sheets and breathes in the scent he's left behind. He wonders if it’s something wolfy about him that likes it so much, or if he's just terminally horny and smitten.

 

He floos to the manor after a quiet day in with Melissa and his (well, Granger’s) books. He is alone in the parlour when he steps out of the fireplace, but that is not unusual. He arrived a little early, after all, and this is home. He is more than welcome to make his own way through the manor. 

 

Climbing the stairs, he heads in the direction of the main living room. The manor has been done up over the past couple of years, cleaned and restored. The colours brightened—mostly rich greens and brassy silvers—tapestries refreshed, windows thrown open to let in summer light. It feels more like the home of Draco’s childhood rather than the dark place of fear it eventually became. He pauses a few times on the way to inspect recently altered rooms, run his fingers over burnished detailing appreciatively. 

 

When he gets to the living area, he doesn’t actually expect to find both mother and father waiting expectantly for him, but they are. He hesitates at the door. There is formality. Lucius is sitting in the high backed leather chair by the window, and Narcissa is standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder. They are both looking at Draco expectantly, but Draco gets the distinct impression that they just stopped talking in hushed tones. 

 

‘Evening,’ Draco greets, stepping inside and approaching the seat opposite his parents. He glances between them, trying to read their faces. Lucius’ looks grim, his lips curled into a sneering frown. Mother is expressionless. 

 

Then Draco notices on the low table between them, a copy of the Daily Prophet, folded open to one of the back pages. And Draco sees himself on the page, in moving miniature. He sees himself, cloak laced up his throat, hair slicked back from his face, leaning in to kiss Nico in the dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron. He sees Nico, sunglasses still on top of his head, t-shirt still stupid, smiling and accepting the kiss, his arm across the back of the seat, pulling Draco in close. 

 

‘Oh,’ Draco says. 

 

The article is short, at least. He can’t read the text from here, but it is only a small, inch long paragraph in the gossip pages. That’s something, at least. 

 

‘Draco, we need to talk,’ says Lucius. ‘Sit down.’

 

Draco doesn’t move to sit. He feels cold, like his blood has just rushed out of his body all at once. He should have expected this. He  _ did _ expect it. But he forgot to be careful. He forgot to care. 

 

He reaches down to pick up the paper. 

 

‘Have you seen it?’ Narcissa asks. 

 

‘No,’ Draco replies as his eyes scan the paragraph. The word  _ muggle  _ isn’t used, but it’s strongly hinted at. He knows that the only reason that it is not said outright is that if it were suggested Draco is breaking statute and it turned out to be false, the paper would be in legal troubles before they could blink. 

 

He stares at the paper, unable to look at mother or father. He doesn’t know what to say. 

 

‘Would you  _ sit down _ ?’ Lucius asks again. 

 

Slowly, Draco does. He keeps the copy of the Prophet in his hand. 

 

‘I think it’s time we made some concrete plans,’ Narcissa comments. Her tone is even. ‘Something to move toward, don’t you agree?’ 

 

Draco frowns. ‘I don’t want to get married,’ he says. ‘Not to—’ 

 

‘There was another incident like this six months ago,’ Lucius reminds him. ‘You said you would take care of it, then.’ 

 

Wincing, Draco looks out the window over the stretching gardens, the twisting, decorative hedges. ‘I did say that, yes.’

 

‘And then this. It’s one thing to take muggles to your bed if you absolutely  _ must _ in the privacy of your own home, but to bring one into—’ 

 

Draco surprises himself with a short, derisive laugh. ‘Yeah, it’s fine if it stays  _ hidden _ ,’ he says sarcastically. 

 

‘It’s definitely better than  _ this _ ,’ Lucius replies. 

 

Narcissa holds up a hand. ‘This is pointless,’ she says. ‘Draco, you’ve done what you’ve done. We can only move forward.’ She looks considering. ‘I can take the initiative, if you would prefer. Find a suitable pureblood girl for you. We might… have to look internationally. But we could take a trip to France for a few months in the new year, that would probably be the best next step.’ 

 

‘No,’ Draco says firmly. He has fucked up, clearly, but there is no way he is leaving this conversation with any  _ wedding plans _ . ‘I’m not getting married.’ 

 

‘Of course you are.’ 

 

‘Not to a  _ woman _ ,’ Draco insists. He puts his palms together, pressed to his lips. ‘Mother, father, I’m extremely gay. You know that, right?’ 

 

Lucius and Narcissa share a look. ‘That’s immaterial,’ Narcissa says. 

 

‘Again, what you do in private…’ agrees Lucius. 

 

‘I won’t marry for politics! I won’t be unfaithful to my partner just so I can look good in public and get my rocks off hidden away in the background. I won’t be in a loveless relationship.’ Draco tightens his grip on the paper in his hand. ‘I know this doesn’t fit in with the  _ plan  _ you have for me, but I can’t do that. I have no desire to.’ 

 

‘Darling, we don’t have a plan for you,’ Narcissa says gently. ‘We just want what is best for you, for the family. You can  _ talk _ to us about this.’ 

 

Draco snorts. ‘I don’t think so.’ 

 

‘You can talk to us about anything.’ 

 

Holding his chin up, Draco says. ‘If I get married,’ he insists, ‘it will be to a man.’ 

 

‘Well… if that’s the case,’ Lucius says. He glances at Narcissa. ‘It might not be impossible. Untraditional, but in the current climate…?’

 

Narcissa nods, seeming to relax. ‘I’m sure we can find someone suitable.’ She moves from Lucius’ shoulder and sits down beside Draco, taking his free hand in her own. ‘We love you so much,’ she assures him. ‘Nothing can change that, darling.’ 

 

Emotion wells up inside Draco’s chest, his chest tightening painfully. Both mother and father look and sound sincere. But they don’t know the whole truth. ‘It’s still not…’ he starts. 

 

Father cuts him off. ‘This means that this nonsense with this string of muggles can stop.’ He shakes his head. ‘I understand it, trying to obscure what you’re doing. But it is not appropriate.’ 

 

‘There isn’t a  _ string _ of muggles.’ 

 

Lucius huffs. ‘So it was only the one back in February and the one this week?’ he says skeptically. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ 

 

‘It’s the  _ same  _ muggle,’ Draco says. 

 

That causes mother and father to both go still and quiet. Draco can feel Narcissa’s grip tighten on his hand. 

 

‘What do you mean?’ she asks him. 

 

What’s the point in hiding it? It will all come up sooner or later, now. Draco holds up the photograph from the paper. ‘There isn’t a slew of different random muggles. There is just one, him.’ 

 

‘And he is…?’ 

 

‘He is my boyfriend.’ 

 

‘This has been going on for half a year?’ Lucius asks, sounding appalled. 

 

‘No.’ Draco shifts. ‘Longer. I won’t go into details, but we are together and I  _ wasn’t _ breaking statute bringing him to Diagon Alley any more than anyone breaks statute telling their muggle partner about magic. He knows everything.’ 

 

Narcissa lets go of his hand and puts it over her mouth instead. 

 

‘This obviously needs to come to an end,’ Lucius says matter of factly. ‘You won’t be seeing him again.’ 

 

‘I will be.’ 

 

‘Draco, think this through,’ Narcissa says. ‘You know this isn’t right. You don’t love him, you can’t. He’s a muggle. You are superior to him.’ She laughs. ‘It’s like if you said you were in love with a house elf. Completely ridiculous. At best you are infatuated, but it is a shallow, fleeting thing. You are better than him, you are a Malfoy.’ 

 

‘You have a responsibility to preserve the pureblood line,’ Lucius adds. ‘You can do this with a man, perhaps. But you’re delusional if you think—’ 

 

Draco stands up sharply. ‘No, you’re the ones who are delusional,’ he says. ‘I am never going to do any of this. The pureblood marriage. Carry on the family line. It’s not going to happen. It’s not even just because of Nico, I’ve known for far longer than that. I’ve known since the war.’ 

 

‘Sit down, Draco,’ Narcissa pleads. ‘Let’s discuss this.’ 

 

But his heart is hammering in his chest, hands shaking. ‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ he insists, voice quavering. ‘It’s the way it is.’ 

 

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Lucius says. ‘You’ve made some very rash decisions.’ 

 

‘No, I haven’t.’ 

 

‘You obviously have, and it’s nothing we can’t—’ 

 

Draco presses both hands to his face, pushing hard against his eyes. He feels like he’s either going to scream or stop breathing entirely. ‘Please,’ he gets out. ‘Please, stop. I’m going to go home.’ 

 

‘You  _ are _ home,’ Narcissa says. 

 

_ No, I’m not,  _ Draco realises. This isn’t home. This is suffocating. This is tension and fraught half-truths and lies and conditional acceptance that can’t,  _ can’t  _ work. 

 

His voice sounds distant and foreign to his own airs, echoing around the high ceilinged room, the empty halls outside. 

 

‘I’m a werewolf.’ 

 

There is nothing but silence. Silence in which Draco’s heart thuds sickly, the words still sitting on his tongue like an aftertaste. 

 

He says it again when there is no response. 

 

‘No, you’re not,’ father says. 

 

‘Yeah, I am. It was Greyback, he—’ 

 

Lucius stands up. ‘Don’t lie about this, Draco. This isn’t funny, it is unnecessary.’ 

 

‘You know I’m not lying,’ Draco hisses. ‘Think about it.’ 

 

‘Don’t—’ 

 

‘ _ Nothing can change that _ ,’ he shoots back at his parents. ‘ _ You’ll love me no matter what _ . Is that right? Isn’t that what you said?’ 

 

‘Get out, Draco.’ Narcissa says, finally finding her voice. It is venomous, spitting poison. ‘Just go.’ 

 

Draco looks between both of them. Lucius’ face is drained of all colour—Narcissa’s is flushed. Both of them look  _ sick _ . Sick to even look at him, recoiling from his words. 

 

He disapparates. 

 

*

 

Draco goes to Remus Lupin. He supposes it’s very rude to show up unannounced at dinnertime, but he is not thinking clearly. His mind is a whir of anxious thoughts, and all he can think to do is apparate right in front of that blue door in Tufnell Park and knock, a little frantically. 

 

‘Wotcher,’ Tonks says when she opens the door. ‘If it’s not my baby cousin.’ It looks like she’s just gotten in from work: she is still wearing her Auror uniform, and her hair is up and messy, a bright, sky blue. She is giving Draco a deservedly curious look, eyebrows raised. ‘You here for my husband?’ 

 

Draco feels like he might be hyperventilating. ‘Yes please,’ he says, ears ringing. 

 

‘Oy!’ Tonks calls into the rest of the house. ‘You’ve got a stray on the doorstep, babe.’ 

 

It looks like Lupin is in the middle of cooking dinner. His head pops out of the kitchen down the end of the hall, closely followed by Teddy’s head from behind his legs. He is holding a wooden spoon. 

 

‘Draco, are you alright?’ 

 

Draco shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. ‘I need help,’ he says. 

 

Lupin steps forward into the hall, concerned. ‘Come in, come in.’ 

 

Tonks moves out of the way as Draco walks into the house, her brow furrowed in confusion. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, but Draco can’t speak. 

 

‘Have dinner with us,’ Lupin says immediately, leading Draco into the kitchen. He summons a fourth plate from the shelf, setting it down at the spare spot on the small, cluttered table. ‘Here, have the spot next to Teddy. Teddy, are you alright sitting next to Draco?’ 

 

‘Yeah…’ Teddy says, slightly hesitantly. Draco knows he probably doesn’t look particularly reassuring as a near-stranger right now, given he is mid-panic attack and probably seems freaked out and a bit unhinged. 

 

‘Sorry,’ Draco says. ‘I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I didn’t know what to do.’ 

 

‘It’s quite alright,’ Lupin replies. ‘Just have a seat.’ 

 

Draco spends several long minutes just sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get his thoughts together and his breathing to come evenly again. Teddy sits next to him, looking at him curiously—Tonks tries to distract them both by turning her eyebrows into little wiggling caterpillars, but it doesn’t really work. 

 

Finally Lupin brings over a big pot of risotto and serves it up to the table before sitting down. 

 

‘I told my parents,’ Draco says quietly. 

 

‘Ah.’ Lupin nods. ‘How did they, er, take it?’ 

 

‘They told me to get out. They couldn’t even look at me. They were disgusted.’ 

 

Tonks picks up a forkful of her risotto. ‘Sounds about right,’ she says. 

 

‘I don’t know why I told them.’ Draco buries his face in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t have. They were… they were telling me I have to stop seeing Nico, and I wanted to, I guess I wanted to  _ win _ the argument, because I knew that it would trump everything else. And I’m sick of hiding, I’m so sick of it.’ 

 

‘How did they know about Nicolas?’ Lupin asks. 

 

‘Oh,  _ everyone _ knows about Nicolas,’ Tonks answers before Draco can say anything. ‘Talk of the office.’ At Lupin’s questioning look, she explains. ‘Draco made the back pages of the Prophet yesterday. Smooching the boy in Diagon Alley.’ 

 

‘Inconspicuous,’ Lupin comments. 

 

‘It was nice smooching.’ Tonks pokes one of Draco’s hands over his face. ‘You guys look sweet.’ 

 

Draco doesn’t really want to hear it today. ‘I’m going to be disowned,’ he mutters. 

 

‘Yeah, probably,’ Tonks agrees. ‘It’s not the end of the world. You can ask my mum.’ 

 

‘You will be alright,’ Lupin assures him. ‘Draco, eat. We can discuss next steps after dinner.’ 

 

Eating is a slow, nauseous chore. All Draco can think about is the idea of waking up tomorrow to find out he’s been cut off from his inheritance, knowing his parents want nothing to do with him. He picks slowly at his meal, listens to Teddy talk about his day at school with half an ear. 

 

After dinner, Teddy goes upstairs and, when the table is (badly) cleared by Tonks, Lupin looks at Draco and says, ‘What do you want to do?’ 

 

‘Steal a time-turner?’ 

 

‘Apart from that,’ Lupin says with a small smile. ‘What is it that you’re afraid of?’ 

 

Draco slumps back in his chair, sighing. ‘Losing everything.’ He looks between Lupin and Tonks. ‘I feel like such an idiot.’

 

‘I’m proud for you,’ Lupin replies. ‘I think you made a hard choice.’ 

 

Toying with a silver ring on his middle finger, Draco frowns. ‘I need to talk to Nico. I need to tell him what happened.’ 

 

‘Would you like him to come here?’ 

 

‘If that’s acceptable for you.’ 

 

‘Absolutely!’ Tonks says keenly. ‘We love Nico. I can go grab him, if you want.’ 

 

That makes Draco laugh, just softly under his breath. ‘I’ll give him a heads up,’ he says, pulling out his phone. ‘He’s playing football tonight, but he’s probably just finishing up now.’ 

 

He doesn’t know what to put in the text, so he just says:  _ ‘something happened, I need you with me. If you are ok with it, Tonks can bring you here.’ _

 

It does not take him long to respond. ‘He’s just leaving the club,’ Draco tells Tonks. ‘He’s happy for you to come and get him. He has never been side-alonged before, by the way.’ 

 

‘I’ll be gentle,’ Tonks says, and disapparates.

 

‘News is not necessarily likely to get out if your family disowns you,’ Lupin says. ‘That you are a werewolf, in any case. It is unlikely that they will spread that around, wouldn’t you agree?’ 

 

‘I don’t know if  they’ll tell people,’ Draco says. ‘People will just assume it’s because I’m seeing a muggle, maybe.’ 

 

‘How do you feel about that?’ 

 

‘I don’t know,’ Draco says. ‘I want it to be over and done with.’ 

 

There is a  _ crack _ and suddenly Tonks appears back in the kitchen with Nico at her side, stumbling slightly. Draco jumps to his feet, the chair he was sitting scraping the tiles behind him. 

 

‘Well, that was disorienting—’ Nico starts, but cuts himself off as Draco throws himself into his arms, burying his face in his chest. Nico smells like sweat and grass and motion, and it reminds Draco of being fucked into the mattress by him this morning. He breathes out shakily, feels Nico’s hand come up to stroke his hair. ‘Hey. Are you okay?’ 

 

Draco tells him everything from the evening. It spills out, words stumbling over each other. 

 

‘I don’t want to lose them,’ he finally gets out. ‘I don’t know what to do without them, we’ve always looked out for each other. I know it’s hard to understand—’ He directs this primarily at Tonks. ‘—I know it’s easy to write them off, but for the longest time they were the only people I  _ had. _ I love them. They’re not just my mother and father, they’re my best friends. And now they’re going to disown me and cut me off and I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ 

 

‘You have some money of your own,’ Nico says, practically. ‘You can make this work.’ 

 

‘Not in my current place,’ he replies. ‘I pay for the flat out of the family funds. It’s much too expensive to afford without it. I always thought if I needed to move out of there for any reason, I’d just return to the manor.’ 

 

‘If people find out that you are a werewolf, you will have a lot of trouble finding someone to rent to you,’ Lupin tells him. ‘I don’t say that to discourage you, but it’s the truth.’ 

 

‘I don’t know how long I’ll have,’ Draco groans. ‘If they decide to be public about it they could get the building to evict me without notice, on the grounds that I’m a danger to the other residents.’ 

 

‘Yes, that was one of your father’s suggestions to the Wizengamot, wasn’t it?’ Lupin says. ‘Unfortunate.’ 

 

‘You’re better off without them,’ Tonks says. ‘Honestly.’ 

 

Draco glances at Nico, who shrugs. ‘I think you should try talking to to them,’ he says. 

 

‘You heard the bit where they hate muggles and werewolves,’ Tonks asks Nico. ‘They’re real pieces of work.’ 

 

‘They’re my  _ family,’ _ Draco says, at the same time as Nico says: ‘But they’re family.’ 

 

Nico scratches his neck, looking at the ceiling. ‘There is probably a good argument that this is the time to cut them out of your life forever, sure, but you know why  _ I _ can’t recommend that,’ he elaborates. ‘I don’t want to say, maybe they’ll surprise you. Because they probably won’t. And I don’t want to say that you should just put up with whatever they throw at you, because you definitely shouldn’t. But, I dunno. They’re important to you, mate.’

 

Tonks shakes her head. ‘My mum always told me that people show their true selves when you look at them from the other side of the glass. They’re exactly the same people they always were, right, it’s just that suddenly you’re not  _ one  _ of them anymore. You drop ‘em like a fire crab.’ 

 

‘I thought my parents were going to cut me out when they found out I was gay,’ Nico says. ‘Because of, you know, God and stuff. Not going to lie, it’s been touch and go over the years, but in the end it’s been worth it to keep pushing to have that relationship there, even if we don’t agree on everything.’ 

 

Draco pulls out a chair and sits down again, resting his chin in his hand and slumping his shoulders. ‘I think that’s a bit different.’ He hums. ‘On the bright side, they did take me being gay extraordinarily well. Much better than I expected. Not that they haven’t had time to adjust on that one.’ 

 

‘You don’t need to make any decisions about what relationship to have with your parents right now,’ Lupin says. ‘But you do need to work out how you will keep yourself safe in the worst case scenario.’ 

 

Lupin sits down too, and outlines, quickly and succinctly, all the laws that could stop Draco from working, earning, living safely if people learn he is a werewolf, and what the ramifications might be. Draco knows it all already, but having it laid out now as an imminent reality makes it seem heavy and too real, and he can feel Nico tensing at his side. 

 

‘First things first, you need to work out alternative living arrangements,’ Lupin says. ‘And get everything set up so that you can relocate quickly if necessary. And given that we’re only a couple of days out from the full moon, I’m going to have to insist that you spend this month with us, just in case.’ 

 

‘Absolutely,’ Draco says without hesitation. He chews on his thumb nail. ‘I can stay at Nico’s for a few nights in an emergency,’ he adds, and glances at Nico. ‘I assume.’ 

 

Nico shrugs. ‘Hey, whatever.’ 

 

‘But there are too many muggles there for me to be able to brew my wolfsbane, so it’s unworkable regardless.’ 

 

‘You could put it on the stove and just tell everyone it’s lentils and you’re slow cooking them,’ Nico says. ‘Everyone else in the house hates lentils. Put a little sticky label on it.’ 

 

Draco snickers to himself. ‘No.’    
  


‘You might not like this,’ Lupin suggests carefully, ‘but can I suggest you speak to Harry? Grimmauld Place is very big, and they frequently have people to stay. There are plenty of spare rooms. I expect Harry would put you up, due to the situation.’ 

 

‘That’s… not a bad idea,’ Draco admits. ‘Ugh.’ 

 

The reality of the situation is like a noxious gas, seeping up slowly around him, suffocating and stifling. They talk for a while longer, and Draco knows he made the right choice in going to Lupin first. He hears stories from Lupin’s years trying to live in a world hostile to werewolves, and some of them are like all of Draco’s worst nightmares come true—but, he is here now after all, telling the tales, with his wife at his side and his son upstairs, in his warm, comfortable house. Safe. Happy. Free. 

 

In the end, Lupin says, ‘It will be okay.’ And Draco has no choice but to try to believe him. 


	19. Chapter 19

In the middle of trying to put his affairs in order, Draco’s muggle birth certificate arrives. It is a surprise, everything related to visiting Melissa having slipped to the back of his mind in the upheaval of the last twenty-four hours. But it comes from an official Ministry owl, dropped off perfunctorily—a clean, slightly faded looking certificate with a stamp in the lower right corner from the General Register Office.

 

Draco puts it aside for now. He knows he’ll be going to Nico’s house this evening, he can think about it then. For now, he has other, more pressing, things to deal with. 

 

‘Potter,’ he says, turning back to the fireplace. ‘For the last time, I’m not asking if I can stash illegal dark objects at your house.’ 

 

‘It sounds a lot like that’s what you’re asking,’ Potter replies, his head floating in the flames, scruffy and bespeckled. ‘I’m fine with you taking one of the spare bedrooms for a few weeks, but you can leave the dark stuff behind, that’s all.’ 

 

‘None of it is illegal,’ Draco insists. ‘Except Melissa, obviously. I’ve long since sold off anything that could get me into trouble. Everything else is Ministry approved.’ 

 

‘Do you know how long it took to get the house free of cursed stuff in the first place?’ Potter groans. 

 

‘Everything will be in cabinets. I’m going to shrink everything down, it’ll all fit under the bed. You won’t even know it’s there.’ 

 

‘I will know it’s there. I have a Probity Probe in my bedroom that will be going off non-stop.’ 

 

‘Well, honestly, whose problem is that? How paranoid are you?’ 

 

‘ _ You’re _ talking to me about paranoia?’ Potter asks disbelievingly. ‘Look, we both probably have some type of PTSD, everyone has their coping mechanisms. I’m allowed to keep a dark detector or two in my own home if I want to.’ 

 

‘Don’t you armchair diagnose me. If I have trauma, it’s because one time an angry midget tried to murder me in a girl’s bathroom.’ 

 

‘That was an  _ accident _ !’ 

 

‘Oh, was it? Was it, Potter? That’s funny, it didn’t feel like an accident. It felt like someone trying to mortally attack me, but if it was just an  _ accident,  _ then that’s—’ 

 

‘Shut up, Malfoy, you stamped on my face that year and left me paralyzed on a train.’ 

 

‘If we can just say things were accidents now—’ Draco starts, but stops himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m feeling very stressed at the moment.’ 

 

‘Yeah, I know.’ Potter sniffs the air. ‘What’s that smell?’ 

 

Draco glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen. ‘I have treacle fudge brownies in the oven,’ he says. ‘I was going to bring a tray of them over when I drop off my collection, as a thank you.’ He is also, in honestly, stress baking, and he has a second tray in there that he plans to eat entirely himself. 

 

Potter seems to hesitate. ‘Yeah?’ he asks. ‘That sounds really good.’ 

 

‘You like treacle tart, don’t you? I recall it was always what you went for at feasts.’ 

 

‘Bit weird that you noticed that, but yeah, it’s my favourite.’ Potter bites his lip. ‘Alright, I guess I can put the Probity Probe away for a while. You promise there is nothing dodgy in with your stuff?’

 

‘I swear, you can go through it all yourself with a fine toothed comb if you like.’ 

 

‘Yeah, alright then.’ Potter rolls his eyes. ‘Drop it over whenever, I’m at home for the summer.’ 

 

‘This afternoon,’ Draco replies, tugging at his hair. ‘I’m trying to get everything ready to go before tomorrow night. There’s a lot to do, but—’ 

 

‘Have you heard anything from your parents yet?’ 

 

‘Nothing. I don’t expect to, until the bomb drops.’ 

 

‘Yeah, I guess that’s probably right. I’ll see you later, I suppose.’ 

 

When Potter’s head disappears from the fire, Draco lets out a deep breath and glances at Melissa, who is on the armchair behind him. ‘You’ll behave if I leave you at Potter’s for a couple of nights?’ he asks. ‘You won’t spook them too bad?’ 

 

He should get moving. There are things to do. He has already secured all the items in his cabinets, charmed a small trunk large enough on the inside to store all of them once he’s shrunk them a bit. Everything should be secure and easy to relocate. His flat looks unusually tidy and bare, with all his objects put away. There is nothing else he owns that he is particularly attached to. All of Granger’s books have been packed up too, along with most of his own. Clothes, personal objects, anything nostalgic. Those need to be packed up later, ready to move. 

 

First he needs to secure whatever money he can. If he gets cut off from the family vaults and his inheritance, he’ll need to make sure that they can’t take anything else away from him too. He spends most of the afternoon at Gringotts, carefully making sure to move what he is entitled to into accounts solely under his own name. He knows he can’t take anything that isn’t directly his own earnings, in case his parents challenge him. It takes hours, trawling through income streams on long scrolls of records, of negotiating with goblins, breaking ties between vaults and restricting access. 

 

His muggle money is easy, at least. His muggle bank accounts have always been completely independent from the family, and mother and father don’t even know about them. All he does with those after he has left Diagon Alley is take a large chunk of his own gold, which he has transferred into muggle cash, and puts them safety in a savings account apart from his spending money and apart from his stocks and bonds. 

 

When he gets home the brownies have cooled at least. He collects everything into his trunk, grabs Melissa, and floos it all over to Grimmauld Place. 

 

‘She might sneak up on you,’ he tells Potter as he puts Melissa down on the pillow of the spare bedroom he has been assigned. ‘She also likes to listen to the wireless, so it might come on randomly.’ 

 

‘Yay, another horcrux…’ Potter says unenthusiastically. 

 

‘I have to leave her here. I’m not leaving her alone right now, I don’t feel safe at home. And I can’t take her to Nico’s place, what if she goes and spooks a muggle? I’ll be here tomorrow night, and then after that I’m hoping to know what I’m doing.’ 

 

‘S’alright,’ Potter says. ‘Just like old times.’ He walks over to Melissa and pats her head. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says to her. ‘I get it.’

‘Yeah, you two should get along like a house on fire, surely,’ Draco says, sliding the trunk full of dark objects under the bed and standing up. ‘I feel like I should be telling you more stuff to do with her, but she’s not a cat. You don’t have to feed her or anything.’ 

 

‘That would be weird.’ 

 

Draco pecks Melissa’s soft, artificial hair. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he tells her. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He picks up the tray of brownies from where he’s put them down on the bed and hands them to Potter. ‘These are for you. I owe you at least three more baked goods for this, so keep me on the hook.’ 

 

‘I’m not sure this is actually what accountability means, but I appreciate it,’ Potter says. He picks Melissa up and inspects her. ‘You’re positive she’s a horcrux?’ 

 

‘You tell me,’ Draco sniffs. ‘I’m not the expert here.’ 

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Potter gives him a long look, before turning back to Melissa and closing his eyes. He reaches one hand out to press to her chest, as though performing Reiki. He takes a few deep breaths, concentrating. 

 

Draco watches him, almost nervous. ‘Anything?’ he asks. 

 

‘Shh,’ Potter whispers, trace-like. ‘I need silence.’ 

 

Long moments pass. Then longer moments, then Draco grows impatient. ‘What can you feel?’ he pushes. 

 

Potter tips his head back and laughs, throwing the doll back at Draco. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I’m fucking with you. Wanted to see how long you could keep your mouth shut.’ 

 

‘Oh, ha-ha.’ Draco shoves past him to tuck Melissa back into bed. ‘So you don’t actually know anything, then?’ 

 

‘No, I do. She does have… a familiar energy about her. I’m not sure I like it.’ 

 

‘No one asked you to like it.’ 

 

‘Do you know how to destroy a horcrux, Malfoy?’ 

 

Draco waves him off, heading back to the doorway. ‘Something something magic sword? No, I know, powerful artefacts, incurable poisons, that sort of thing. I have resources, and, I might add, little intention of destroying her.’ 

 

‘They can be unmade, too.’ Potter says this with a slight air that reminds Draco, uncomfortably, of their old headmaster. ‘If the person who created them feels true remorse for what they did.’ 

  
  


*

  
  


Draco goes to Nico’s house early evening, emotionally and physically exhausted, with the other plate of brownies and his birth certificate. He doesn’t even bother to do anything other than apparate directly onto the bed and fall face down, letting out a long, tired groan into Nico’s pillow. 

 

He hears the creak of the desk chair turning. Something is playing quietly from the computer—not music. For a moment, Draco thinks it’s just white noise, until he realises there are snatches of garbled words in there and most of the time it’s low radio static. 

 

It is kind of soothing, actually. 

 

‘Are you listening to alien broadcasts again?’ he asks Nico, squinting at him out of the corner of his eye. 

 

‘No aliens yet, I don’t think.’ Standing up, Nico crosses the narrow room to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘You look rough. Doing alright?’ 

 

‘I am going to eat this entire serving of brownies, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop me.’ 

 

‘Wrong,’ Nico replies, plucking a brownie off the plate and biting into it. 

 

It’s too much of a reaction for such a small slight, but Draco feels his lips start to quiver. He tries to bite back the hot, choking feeling suddenly invading his throat, but he can’t. He lets out a sob, and buries his face in the blankets. 

 

‘Oh fuck, I’m sorry—’ The sound of creaking as Nico moves, and then the bed dipping closer to Draco. A warm hand on his back. ‘It was a joke, I’m sorry. Here—’ 

 

‘No, eat it,’ Draco gets out, between wracking, heaving sobs. ‘It’s everything, I’m not… not upset over brownies.’ 

 

‘Come here.’ Nico pulls him up and into a hug. Draco buries his face into his shoulder, shaking through the tears as Nico rubs soft, soothing circles on his back. 

 

It feels so foreign to have someone physically comfort him as he cries. He grabs the back of Nico’s t-shirt and holds him close. ‘You can ignore me,’ he says into Nico’s shirt, where he’s leaving a wet patch. ‘You don’t need to do this. I’m just a crier, it doesn’t mean much, it’s not the end of the world.’ From a young age Draco learned that if he cried and screamed enough he could get pretty much whatever he wanted. He was trained out of it with clear standards as he grew up about what was respectable in public as the face of the family—but never not to cry _ in general.  _

 

‘Mate, it’s fine,’ Nico murmurs. ‘Eat something, you’ll be alright.’ 

 

‘They think I’m a monster. It’s just—it’s all just starting to hit—’ 

 

‘You  _ are  _ a monster,’ Nico says into his hair, kissing his head. ‘Listen to me. You don’t exist to be respectable. You don’t exist to fulfil your parents expectations. You don’t even exist to be  _ nice. _ No one can take what you are away from you. They can choose how they respond to it, but it’s not up to you to make them happy. If they want to be happy with you, they have to find their own way to do that. That’s not on you.’ 

 

Draco doesn’t say anything, just sniffles and, eventually, sits back and wipes his eyes. He picks up a brownie and breaks off a bit to eat with his fingers. ‘I’m trying to plan ahead,’ he says. ‘I’ve secured as much money as I can, but it’s still… I might need to get a job?’ He frowns. ‘Not that anywhere will take me.’ 

 

‘Oh right, yeah, those extremely limited employment options, right?’ 

 

‘I already can’t work at the Ministry, or as a teacher. Death eater and all that. Not that I would particularly want to. As a werewolf, no one else will take me either.’ 

 

‘Can you get a normal job?’ Nico asks. 

 

Draco gives him an odd look. ‘Do you mean a muggle job?’

 

‘Yeah.’ Nico pauses. ‘I'm guessing you never like, got your GCSEs or anything though, huh.’

 

‘Nope.’ He pulls a face. ‘Besides, I couldn't do a muggle job.’

 

‘Sure you could, what's stopping you? They don't all need qualifications.’

 

‘Of course  _ you  _ say that, a fourteen year old could do yours.’ 

 

Nico grins. ‘I mean, you're not really wrong. You realise I basically run the place though, right? Kim is the owner, but I don't just make coffee. I run the books, I do the orders, the roster, I do the hiring. Not the firing, I do make Kim do that. I can’t stand being on people’s bad side. But I pay everyone's wages. I organise maintenance and I even did all the decor when we renovated.’

 

‘Oh, that was you,’ Draco comments, thinking back to a couple of years ago when he had entered the café to find it completely refurbished and had been extremely disoriented in his exhausted state. ‘You made some… interesting choices.’

 

Nico's taste in interior design, as far as Draco can tell between the café and this bedroom, consists of a lot of distressed wooden furniture, low benches, brightly colored patchwork blankets, bare bulbs, and fairy lights. If Draco was being generous, he would say it has a vibe of being in a wood cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bioluminescent fungus and the creeping feeling that there could be anything waiting outside for you in the dark. If he was not being generous, he would say that Nico has never had more than five dollars loose in his pocket and doesn't know what class looks like. 

 

It could be both. 

 

‘My point is, there's a lot you can do with your life and things might not be quite as simple as they look. You don't have formal qualifications, but you're smart and creative and you have interesting hobbies. You can turn what you do into a career if you want to, even in the muggle world.’

 

‘I could be a stage magician,’ Draco says dryly. 

 

‘Like David Blaine!’

 

‘Not like David Blaine, he's a squib.’ At Nico's look, he adds: ‘A person born to a wizarding family with no magical abilities.’

 

‘Wait, is he really?’

 

‘Yes, and he is a sad, desperate man, trying to prove something. That's not a statement against squibs, by the way. David Blaine has clearly done well for himself, by… some measure.’

 

‘Which stage magicians  _ are  _ real wizards?’ 

 

‘None of them, to my knowledge. At least none who have made it big. They'd get caught out.’ Draco finishes his brownie and reaches for another one. He offers the plate to Nico. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I'm sorry I… you shouldn't have to deal with me going through all this, I don't want to put it on you.’

 

‘You're used to being alone, hey.’ Draco shrugs a shoulder. Nico reaches out and pulls him into a hug. He leans back. ‘Can we do a quick relationship check-in?’

 

That’s unexpected. ‘... Alright?’

 

‘My emotional intelligence is not that great, and yours isn't either, frankly. My problem is that I know you're hurting right now, and I don't want to be a contributor to that, but I don't necessarily know what to say except “man, that sucks” and to try to offer solutions, which I know doesn't resonate with everyone.’

 

Draco stares at him. ‘Did you swallow a relationship counseling book at some point?’

 

‘Like, look, probably. And oy, this is exactly what I mean about you having shitty emotional intelligence. Do you want to talk about the Five Love Languages? We can. Em never shuts up about them.’

 

‘No, I don't want to talk about the five love languages.’ Draco picks up another brownie. 

 

‘Em is acts of service. I'm physical affection, apparently.’

 

‘I know you are, you giant goober.’ Draco licks his fingertips. ‘I'm thinly veiled insults and passive aggression.’

 

‘That's not a love language.’

 

‘Shut up and have a brownie.’ Draco smiles at him, weakly. ‘You help me,’ he says. ‘You make me feel better. I don't have the language for how or why, but you do. Nothing seems that dire, somehow.’

 

In the end, Draco is glad that he shares the plate of brownies with Nico. By the time they've finished the entire batch he feels a little bit ill, but better. If he'd had the whole lot himself, illness would undoubtedly have been the predominant feeling. They've probably both spoiled themselves for a healthy dinner, but that was a long shot anyway. Nico is more likely to just put some chicken nuggets in the oven later. 

 

‘Alright, how do I do this?’ Draco asks eventually, picking up his birth certificate. ‘Where do I go tomorrow to apply for a passport?’ 

 

Nico glances at the paper. ‘Oh, cool. Yeah, you can do it online if you want. Hang on—’ He swings off the bed and goes to his desk, unplugging his laptop from his set up and bringing it back to the bed. He wipes his fingers, still sticky from treacle, on his jeans and opens the computer. He types something into Google, clicks a couple of links and passes the laptop to Draco. ‘Here.’

 

Draco takes it gingerly and squints at the screen. He has watched Nico use the internet a lot, and Granger a few times. He's never so much as used a computer himself. 

 

‘It's not going to bite,’ Nico tells him, observing his hesitation. 

 

‘Forgive my caution, you would be surprised what does.’ Draco chews on his lip and puts his fingers on the little square that controls the cursor. He can feel Nico laughing next to him as it takes him a ludicrously long time to get the hang of moving it anywhere. But it's not rocket science, just an… unnatural motion. As unnatural as writing with a keyboard instead of a quill. ‘How are you so fast at this?’ he asks, a little flustered, as he starts to put this details into the form.

 

‘Instinct, at this point,’ Nico replies. ‘You don't have to do it one finger at a time, love. It's designed so you put your hands on the centre row—’ 

 

‘Hey, do you want me to give you a foot of parchment and an ink well and see how well you do? I'll get the hang of it.’ 

 

‘It's like watching a bird peck for worms, we're going to be here all night.’

 

Draco snickers and turns his head to plant a kiss on Nico's lips. The whole thing takes a while. First putting in all his details and then plugging the laptop back in and printing off the completed form to be witnessed later. He needs to get photos taken as well, which will have to wait for tomorrow. But finally, all that can be done is done and Draco yawns widely and flops back onto the bed. The springs creak beneath him in the old mattress, and the pillows under his head are flat and unsupportive. He closes his eyes, breathing in the warm scent of the blankets. 

 

‘I'm better for this,’ he murmurs. ‘No matter what happens. I'm independent, and I don't have to lie anymore. I don't have to poison myself with this every day. And I'm better for you.’ 

 

‘Too right you are,’ Nico says, and pats his knee. ‘You can't go to sleep yet,’ he adds. ‘We still need to have dinner. What do you want? Fish fingers or nuggets?’ 

 

Draco pushes himself up. ‘Let's eat out,’ he answers. ‘I'll pay for it with my parent’s gold while I still can.’

 

There's apparently a nice Japanese place a couple of blocks away, so they walk there in the dark, wrapped up in each other, and eat a frankly absurd amount of sushi and drink enough sake that Draco can't feel his legs when he stands up. 

 

No one, Draco thinks, can take this feeling away, even if they can take away the means to it.

  
  


*

  
  


The following day is almost as busy as the last, but Nico is there for all of it. They get photographs taken for Draco's passport application, get the form appropriately signed, and submit it. Then they return home and Draco packs up the last of the things he wants to be able to run with if he needs to make a quick exit from his apartment.  

 

‘You would understand better if you'd seen it before,’ he says, when Nico asks if this is all really necessary. ‘It's not quite torches and pitchforks, but it's close. There was a period where it was almost better, after wolfsbane was invented and people started to realise that it could be managed. But after a few incidents—wolfsbane is effective when taken correctly, but if I were to miss a dose, or if one element of the brewing was off, it would be completely useless. And the consequences are obviously extremely dire. My father and others used a couple of incidents to roll decades back on the progression of how people feel about us. It might be even worse, now, to be honest. At least before we were somewhat tragic. Now it's our fault if something happens.’ 

 

‘Do all werewolves brew the wolfsbane for themselves?’

 

‘No, hardly any. You can get it prescribed by the Ministry, but that means registering as a werewolf. They control where you can live, where you can work—if at all. You have to disclose in many situations. It basically means having your whole life monitored. Otherwise, many werewolves get wolfsbane illegally. I wouldn't advise it. Expensive, dangerous if you get caught, and hard to trust what you're getting. Of course, there are still some who don't bother with potions at all. Form packs and live far away from human settlements. I believe that's having something of a resurgence, actually.’

 

‘It is? That's so cool.’

 

‘It’s not cool, it's hippy nonsense.  _ Packs _ . They're collectives. There were photos of some in one of Granger’s books. Huge communal farms, ramshackle buildings. One of them has a market where they sell organic produce and felt hats.’

 

‘Is this in Britain?’

 

‘No, I believe that was somewhere in Andalusia.’ 

 

‘I know exactly where I'm planning my next holiday, fuck.’

 

Draco looks at him curiously. ‘We can go at some point, if you’d like. I'd be interested in seeing it, even if I do think it's patently absurd.’ 

 

‘Wait, shit, really? Yes, yeah let's go. My Spanish is only passable, but we'd do fine. When do you want to? Probably not this month, we have to wait for your passport, but—’

 

‘One step at a time,’ Draco replies, laughing despite himself. ‘Resolve the current crisis before we plan too many trips.’

 

But to Draco's surprise the crisis does not resolve. The full moon comes, and goes. He doesn't hear from his parents. He doesn't get an eviction notice from the owner of the building. He doesn't see his name in the papers. He doesn't even lose access to the family vaults.

 

‘I don't understand!’ he vents, after a week has gone. ‘What are they waiting for? How long can it possibly take to disown someone?’

 

But in the end, all he gets is an owl from mother, saying she'll be flooing over in five minutes. It is the middle of the day and Draco is alone in his apartment, needle between his teeth and a spool of thread in his hands, working on patching up a few small holes he's noticed in the back of Melissa's dress. The wolfsbane is simmering away on the stove. 

 

He glances at it, glances at his mother's letter, and doesn't move. What difference does it make now? 

 

She arrives promptly. Draco has never felt anxious like this, waiting for a visit from either of his parents. His heart is thudding in his throat. As the fire bursts green, he puts Melissa down and stands up, poking his needle into a pincushion. 

 

‘Draco,’ Narcissa says, stepping out of the fire. ‘How are you, darling?’ 

 

Something cold shatters in Draco's stomach. His fingers clench on the back of his chair and he stares at her, unable to say anything. 

 

She takes a few more steps into the room, looking around. ‘The apartment looks nice,’ she comments. ‘Less cluttered than it was before.’

 

The room is almost bare, everything personal stripped and hidden. ‘I tidied,’ Draco says.  

 

‘I can see—’

 

Draco cuts his mother off sharply. ‘Why are you here?’ 

 

‘I thought we should talk,’ Narcissa says. ‘Lucius and I have had some discussions, and we think… Shall we sit down, dear?’ 

 

She is looking pointedly at the couch. Hesitantly, Draco moves. He feels like he's on the defensive, prey being toyed with. He moves a couple of cushions, as well as one of Nico's patterned jumpers, out of the way. 

 

‘Thank you,’ his mother says as she takes a seat and pats the spot beside her. ‘Draco,’ she says when he doesn't make any motion to sit. ‘I just want to talk.’ 

 

‘You didn't have to come here,’ he says. ‘You don't have to tell me you're cutting me out of the family in  _ person _ . There's no need to play act civility.’ 

 

‘We're not cutting you off,’ Narcissa says plainly. ‘You're our son.’ 

 

Draco stares. ‘I'm a wer—’

 

‘I won't pretend that we approve of your current choices,’ Narcissa says over him. ‘By choosing to debase yourself with this muggle you are tarnishing our family's name. But… our disappointment is not worth losing our only child.’ 

 

‘This isn't about Nico.’

 

She gives him a sharp look, and says pointedly. ‘Of course it's about the muggle. What else would it be about?’ 

 

Draco’s jaw drops and then—he laughs. It's hysterical. ‘Mother, I'm a werewolf! You want to just ignore this?’

 

‘Didn't we give you enough attention as a child?’ she opines, incongruous to reality. ‘You'll say anything,  _ honestly  _ dear.’ 

 

‘I'm not attention-seeking!’ 

 

‘Good,’ Narcissa replies. ‘Then we'll give it no more.’

 

Draco cannot name the emotion he is feeling. Humiliation, relief and a dull, sick look into the vastness of his future, weighted on this long, pregnant pause in conversation. A sharp, bitter sting of something ironic that in many ways, this changes nothing. He has been living in secrecy this long, why not the rest of his life? 

 

He sinks onto the chair next to his mother. ‘You would just… pretend it's not real?’ 

 

She reaches out and touches his cheek. ‘Nothing is more precious to me than you,’ she says. ‘To me or to your father.’

 

‘I'm a werewolf,’ he tells her again, as though repeating it over and over will make her hear him. 

 

She ignores his words and instead says, ‘Is the muggle here?’ 

 

‘No, he’s at work.’ 

 

‘What does he do?’

 

‘He makes coffee.’

 

Narcissa gives him a very long, very disappointed look. ‘ _ Draco _ .’

 

‘It's very good coffee.’

 

She sighs. ‘We are not interested in meeting him,’ she tells him. ‘We don't approve, we won't condone this, and we won't indulge you.’

 

‘I see.’

 

‘Family is more important than anything.  _ You _ are more important than anything. That's what we have decided.’

 

Draco takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. ‘I've been through this, mother. I've done the leaps and justifications that you're doing. You can ignore that I'm a werewolf if I'm good enough at hiding. You can ignore that I'm dating a muggle because deep down you know that everything you want from me is untenable now. It doesn't work, you know. It's not worth it.’ He pauses, waiting for a response that doesn't come. ‘I'm not doing it anymore,’ he adds. ‘I'm not playing this game. You can if you want to, but I will continue to be a werewolf and I will continue to be in love with a muggle.’ 

 

‘I suppose I can't change your mind,’ Narcissa says. Her tone tells Draco that there's no point in arguing, not now. 

 

He gives up. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asks, getting to his feet. 

 

She stays for a cuppa, and everything is painfully, bruisingly normal. When she leaves, she hugs him close and Draco hugs her back, and the warmth he might otherwise feel is hollow and distant.


	20. Chapter 20

By the time Nico lets himself into the flat later that same afternoon, Draco has already gone and collected all his possessions from Potter’s place, restored them to their original size, and is in the process of arranging everything in their cabinets on the wall once more. He looks up from where he's setting up his little model dragon rock band in pride of place in a display case under the open window. A gentle breeze flutters the curtains. It's actually good to be rearranging everything. He can evaluate what is most important to him. And it is these glam rock dragons, definitely.

 

There is a moment before Nico properly takes in the room—a moment where he is kicking his shoes off and running a hand through his hair, which is getting long again, shaking it out from a long day at work. But when he looks around, his face flutters through several expressions. Delight. Confusion. And then settling on mild apprehension. ‘Your stuff is back!’

 

‘Yes, I'm staying put.’

 

‘Wh—Since when?’

 

‘Since my mother came to visit today.’

 

Nico raises an eyebrow. ‘And it went… well?’

 

‘I'm not  _ currently  _ being disowned.’ Draco shrugs. ‘I don't know if I'd say it went well. I don't know exactly how I would say it went.’

 

Nico steps closer, leaning against the wall over where Draco is sitting on the floor. ‘You alright, mate?’

 

‘I suppose.’ Draco rubs at his eyes. ‘Yes. No.  Nothing has—’ Annoyance bursts suddenly through him, a flint spark. ‘No, I'm pissed off at them. I'm angry at myself. I tried to push back, force mother to acknowledge it, at least—but in the end, everything is the same. They still own me. I still let them  _ own  _ me.’ The irritation fizzles again, as quick as it came on. ‘But I have a place to live. Anyway, that was my day. How was yours?’

 

‘Oh, that ol’ chestnut,’ Nico replies. ‘Let me guess: “We won’t say anything if you don’t say anything”?’ 

 

‘More or less.’ Draco looks Nico up and down and cocks his head to the side. ‘What on earth happened to your hands?’ 

 

Nico holds up his hand, fingers splayed. ‘Like it? I was hanging out with Tatiana last night. She wanted practice, she’s doing a new course.’ 

 

He looks kind of ridiculous. Nico’s sister has given him acrylic nails—they’re very well done—in bright, baby pink with a squared off tip and little white sparkling designs in miniature on each finger. Draco smirks. ‘Very pretty.’ 

 

‘Thanks! But I can’t do anything, kept messing up making coffees all today. Customers were giving me weird looks.’ 

 

‘If they’re too long, I can shrink them a little.’ 

 

‘Oh, could you?’ Nico holds out his hand, and Draco picks up his wand. Holding Nico’s warm palm in his own, he carefully shortens the nails, one by one, so that he preserves Tatiana’s designs. 

 

‘You have a good relationship with your sister,’ Draco comments. ‘You had a period where you didn’t speak to either of them, didn’t you?’ 

 

Nico stiffens and Draco gets the immediate impression it's not actually something he wants to discuss in the light of day. ‘Yeah.’

 

But he pushes. Just this once. ‘She doesn’t hold it against you?’ 

 

‘Tati? Nah, she’d forgive me basically anything, I reckon. Other hand, I don’t think Ren trusts me—but then, she never did. She loves me anyway. She was always the one to you know, catch me with weed in school or whatever. She’d tell me off, but also never tell mãe or papai. I think after I came back, it was kinda the same dynamic. I was forgiven for being young and dumb, but she’s gotta keep an eye out on me an’ make sure it doesn’t happen again.’ 

 

‘Does Renata know about me?’

 

‘Haven’t seen her for a bit, but I dunno if Tati has mentioned anything to her, so maybe.’ He smirks. ‘You worried about being scrutinised?’ 

 

‘I’m sure she would adore me. I mean, who couldn’t?’ Draco says with enough bluster behind it to almost make it sound true. He sighs. ‘I’m worried,’ he admits. ‘About my future with mother and father. I feel like they’ve trapped me, like every time I try to move forward there’s only... so far outside my cage I can go.’ 

 

Nico gives him a thoughtful look. ‘Have you ever considered getting into therapy at all?’ 

 

‘The wizarding world doesn’t do that,’ Draco says dryly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I need it, and I’m not the only one. But what can’t be cured with a sleeping draught goes swept under the rug. We’re excellent at treating symptoms, not underlying causes. I suppose I  _ could  _ see a muggle, but given so many of my issues are tied to lycanthropy, pureblood ideology and dark magic it might be a little tricky to get the most out of it while lying through my teeth.’ 

 

Nico nods, licking his lips. ‘Point. Still, though.’ 

 

‘I believe Granger is pushing for some transdisciplinary approaches for the staff of St Mungo’s to learn from muggle professionals. There’s a lot of pushback because there’s this misconception that she’s suggesting that Healers start doing “surgery”, but I’ve already thrown my money and support behind it—for whatever that is worth. So yes, as soon as there’s a wizard or two who have some form of qualification as a psychologist, I’ll be first in line to try  _ that  _ out.’

 

‘This was already a plan, then?’ 

 

‘I’m perfectly aware that most of my problems can’t be fixed by having a nice boyfriend, money, and a good shag.’ He breathes out a short laugh. ‘But they help.’ 

 

*

 

Nico books the flights to visit Melissa’s home in West Virginia with Draco’s money. Draco watches over his shoulder, furrowing his brow when he sees that Nico is booking seats on the aeroplane for two. 

 

‘Are you coming?’ he asks, surprise in his voice. 

 

Nico glances back at him, cursor hovering over the  _ Check Flights _ button. ‘I thought so,’ he starts. ‘I don’t have to, if you want to go it alone.’ 

 

Draco can’t actually think of anything he wants to do less than travel by muggle methods, laboriously, without Nico. ‘No, by all means. I just didn’t expect you would have the time. What with work, and your blog.’

 

‘I can make time,’ Nico says easily, and it’s as simple as that. He books them a thirteen hour flight to Clarksburg, West Virginia, with a three hour layover in Chicago. 

 

It’s only as Draco is tallying the days of the trip while they’re looking at return flights, that he realises. ‘The Thursday will be a full moon,’ he says. It’s not the coming full moon, but the one following. 

 

‘Oh yeah,’ Nico says innocently. ‘It is. Is that going to be a problem?’ 

 

‘Of course it’ll be a problem. We should move it to the following week.’ He observes Nico’s hesitation. ‘You  _ want  _ to travel on the full moon.’ 

 

‘I just think it would be cool, is all.’ 

 

Draco gives him a long look. ‘I need to take my potion every day the week leading up to. That means while we’re flying, and smuggling it through customs. As well as a safe place to transform. It’s an unnecessary complication.’ 

 

‘You’re right,’ Nico says, clicking back to the previous page to change their flight dates.

 

Draco puts out a hand to still his. ‘What’s the appeal?’ he asks. 

 

‘Just… We’ll be somewhere new, for both of us. You always transform indoors. In the same places. It feels like, when you see a dog that should be running on a farm trapped in a tiny, cramped yard, or something. It seems cruel on yourself. I just think it would be good to have a fresh start.’ 

 

_ A fresh start.  _

 

It is dark in Nico’s bedroom, the fairy lights that hang over his bed casting glowing reflections in the screen of his laptop. Draco stares for a long moment, thinking. 

 

‘Book the flights,’ He says. ‘Don’t change the dates, they’re fine. I can do this.’ 

 

*

 

It takes some preparation. The wolfsbane is finished only the day before they fly out, and Draco plans to take his first dose somewhere across the Atlantic. Hiding things from muggles isn’t particularly difficult, but Nico downloads a couple of episodes of  _ Border Security: Australia's Front Line _ for Draco to watch to put the fear of God in him. It doesn’t work, which is probably for the best given that travelling with wolfsbane was Nico’s idea in the first place. 

 

‘Biosecurity my arse,’ Draco mutters, conjuring a hidden compartment into his suitcase and enlarging it with secured space to store the vials of potion. 

 

Nico has his fingertips pressed to his lips in a steeple, watching what Draco is doing carefully. ‘That won’t show up on a scanner?’ 

 

‘No, as soon as this zip is closed—’ Draco pulls the fastener closed on the compartment to demonstrate. ‘—it may as well not exist. Completely undetectable to muggles. If you’re going to be so concerned about this, maybe don’t travel with a werewolf, my love.’ 

 

‘That’s alright for you to say, you’re  _ super  _ duper white. I’ve never made it through airport security without being “randomly” pulled aside for an inspection,’ Nico says, but Draco’s words do seem to dial back his apprehension.  

 

Draco owls Melissa frequently in the weeks leading up to the trip: short, frequent exchanges of friendly letters. She lives in a small town next to the Ohio river, about 45 minutes from Parkersburg, where Draco and Nico have decided to stay. However, cordial as the letters are, they remain nondescript. No mention of horcruxes. No mention of werewolves. No mention of murder. Every time Draco writes he feels brutally aware of the fact that he does not  _ know _ Melissa, not really—not as he feels he does. And she doesn’t know him. 

 

But that may change soon. 

 

When it comes time to travel—very quickly, it feels like—Draco is immensely thankful he has Nico at his side. The airport is a frustrating flow of queues and muggle rules and regulations and unspoken patterns that he’s just barely cognizant of. He is no stranger to navigating compliance and customs, but suddenly the difference between wizarding and muggle administration feels like speaking another language. 

 

But Nico speaks the language. He gets them checked in, checks their luggage, weighs their carry-on bags, moves them through customs, finds their gate, notices the gate has moved, rushes them to the other end of Heathrow, finds their gate again and keeps track of boarding passes and passports the whole time. He listens to the announcements for boarding and stops Draco from swanning on before their row numbers are called. 

 

On the plane, Nico hefts Draco’s carry-on bag (containing Melissa) into the overhead locker and gestures at their row. ‘Window seat or middle?’ he asks. 

 

Draco glares at him. 

 

‘What?’ 

 

‘What do you need to do to sit in the  _ nice  _ area we just came through?’ 

 

‘First class? Pay extra when booking the tickets.’ Nico blinks. He realises. ‘You want to sit in first class.’ 

 

_ ‘Obviously,’  _ Draco says testily, sliding past Nico into the window seat as other passengers start to push by them in the narrow aisle. 

 

Nico snorts. ‘We can probably change  _ your  _ seats for the flight back, if you’re so desperate to reinforce class hierarchy inside a fucking aeroplane.’ He takes a seat next to Draco, makes a frustrated sound, and wriggles slightly. 

 

Draco raises an eyebrow. ‘Comfy?’ 

 

‘It’s just a bit—tight.’ He shifts some more before giving up and just lifting up the armrest between them to give himself more room. At Draco’s look, he says, defensively, ‘I’m _ thick,  _ you like it.’

 

‘I wonder what would solve this problem,’ says Draco sweetly. ‘It’s not like there is anywhere roomier and more spacious on this craft, after all.’

 

Nico pokes out his tongue. 

 

They are joined in their row by a third passenger; a balding, middle aged American man with a loud voice and a soul-patch, with whom Nico strikes up an immediate and animated conversation. Draco looks around the cabin with hesitant interest. Wizarding modes of transportation aren’t always glamorous—stepping into a toilet and flushing yourself down into the Ministry or spiralling into nothingness holding an old piece of trash, for instance. But they are fast, and tend not to involve cramming yourself into tiny spaces with dozens of other people. 

 

A few rows away, across the aisle, a small child is crying loudly, his mother shushing him and apologising to everyone sitting nearby. Somewhere behind Draco someone is coughing relentlessly and sneezing every twenty seconds or so. As the narrow aisles clear, smartly dressed and attractive attendants move up and down the cabin, checking the overhead compartments brusquely. 

 

One of the attendants pauses at their row and asks Nico to lower his armrest, which he does with a bright apology and a smile, before immediately putting it up again as soon as she has moved on. 

 

‘Nervous?’ he asks Draco, rubbing a hand up his thigh. 

 

‘No,’ Draco replies honestly. ‘Impatient, perhaps. We have been sitting here on the tarmac for almost twenty minutes.’ 

 

Nico chuckles under his breath. ‘Get used to it,’ he murmurs. ‘You’ve got, ooh, a little over half a day left of it. We’ll be on the move soon, don’t worry.’ 

 

‘I’m not afraid of muggle cars and planes and what-else-have-you,’ Draco says, jumping back—offended—to the question of whether he is nervous. ‘Slightly sceptical, sure. But I’m not irrationally terrified of spark plugs and cable television.’ 

 

‘Didn’t say you were. Plenty of us don’t like flying, though, and it’s your first time.’ 

 

But Draco loves flying. Maybe not in these conditions so much—but they do eventually get going, crawling slowly up the tarmac like an ant on a tabletop until they are suddenly barrelling forward, the craft rumbling loudly around them, and Draco is twisted in his seat, pinned to the window and staring outside as the ground suddenly drops away below them and his stomach lurches and his ears pop and they are suddenly, loudly in the air. 

 

It is dark outside, the late evening turned to night, and London a sprawling map of lights like glowing fungus on a forest floor. Hardly the same as being on a broom, but still a rush of joy at soaring into the dark sky, enough that he can almost imagine the wind whipping his hair and stinging his cheeks. 

 

When they get swallowed by the cloud cover he sits back in his chair, grinning. Nico gives him a curious look. 

 

‘It’s been too long since I’ve been flying,’ he explains. 

 

What follows however, is eight straight hours of intense boredom, during which Draco near loses his mind. He has a book, and he watches a documentary about sunfish. He learns a lot about the life of the American sitting next to Nico, second hand. He eats a very, very, very bad meal, after which he sneakily downs his wolfsbane, twisting his body towards the wall to swallow it. Eventually he just decides to treat Nico as an enormous pillow and shifts around until he is as comfortable as he can get, and takes a restless nap. 

 

When they land in Chicago he is buzzing and itching to get off the plane. He stands up well before Nico or the American man, who both stay in their seats, chatting. Draco leans on the back of the seat in front of him, pouting. 

 

‘Love, sit down,’ Nico says. ‘It’s a busy flight, it’s gonna take ages for everyone to disembark. May as well just chill.’ 

 

Even after the wait to get off the plane, and the wait to collect their luggage, and the wait to organise a hire car, there is still a couple of hours on the road to Parkersburg, during which Draco forces Nico, despite his objections that he’s “fine”, to stop for cheap, gas station coffee several times along the road out of general anxiety that he’s going to fall asleep at the wheel. 

 

They get into town late at night, the headlights of the car flashing through unfamiliar streets in the darkness. And then the following day they are almost immediately back on the road, tracing the winding curves of the river and driving deeper into greenery and scattered, weatherbeaten farmland until they reach their destination. 

 

Melissa’s home is a small tudor-styled cottage tucked away between a stone church and a bridge that crosses a shallow, pebbled creek. Autumn leaves scatter across the lush green grass of the hill the house is nestled in, fluttering down from the thick, tall branches overhead. The yellow clapboard siding on the house is roughed from age, but clean. The red framing on the doors and windows is decorated in climbing plants, small flowers turned to the sun. 

 

There are some subtle signs of magic. A collection of gardening tools snipping at one of the bushes outside dropping suddenly to the ground, sensing the approach of a muggle, the blinking eyes of an ugly gnome under the porch. Draco glances at Nico and points it out. 

 

‘What’s that?’ 

 

‘Garden gnome. Shh, he’s onto us.’ 

 

‘Fuck off,’ squeaks the gnome and Nico bursts into laughter, crouching down next to the house, peering through the slats of the foundation and trying to get a good eyeball on the creature. 

 

‘I’d be careful, he might bite,’ Draco warns as he climbs the steps to the front door and pressing the doorbell. He glances down at Nico, who has pulled out his camera and is turning on the flash. Without much objection: ‘You could blind him, you know.’ 

 

The door swings open just as the flash goes off and the gnome yelps in irritated surprise. 

 

‘Got it,’ Nico says. 

 

‘Ain’t you never seen a gnome before?’ Melissa asks. 

 

Draco turns back to face her immediately. The doll is in his arms, but Melissa—the real Melissa—doesn’t look much like it at all, not that there would be any logical reason to assume she should. Her hair is a dark, fawny grey that sits in wispy curls around her olive toned face. Her hazel eyes are surrounded by heavy wrinkles, deep set in her face, and her thin lips are curled into a curious smile. She looks younger than she should, as though she’s only in her late-fifties or so, rather than nearly eighty. Not really that unusual for a witch; but Draco has to wonder how much of that is due to the effects of the horcrux. 

 

‘He hasn’t, actually,’ he says. ‘Melissa?’ 

 

‘And you must be Draco.’ She reaches out a hand to place on Draco’s arm, squeezing in greeting. ‘Come inside, come inside.’ 

 

Inside the house—which Nico hurries to switch off his camera and follow him into—there are signs of the age that doesn’t show on Melissa herself, at least. A cane in the crook next to the door, some potions Draco vaguely recognises need to be taken morning and night for common illnesses. And the style of the house, clean and well kept though it may be, seems barely changed from its original build. The radio is on, playing classic hits that Draco mostly recognises, although Nico wouldn’t.

 

Greetings are made, conversation stilted and slightly awkward, until they take a seat in the living room and Draco passes Melissa her horcrux. ‘This is yours,’ he says. 

 

Silence, for a long moment. 

 

Melissa holds the doll in her hands, her fingers shaking. There is a distant look in her gaze as she stares at it, taking it in. Carefully, she strokes one of the strawberry curls away from the doll’s cheek and frowns. ‘The last time I saw this doll,’ she says in a trembling voice, ‘was the day my husband died.’ 

 

‘Well, yes,’ Draco replies in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘That makes sense.’ 

 

She pulls her eyes off the doll and stares at him, apparently appalled. ‘And how?’ she asks. ‘How does that make sense? How would you know that?’ 

 

‘Because—’ Draco casts a quick seeking look at Nico, who only shrugs. ‘Er, because of what you did.’ 

 

‘And what did I  _ do?’  _

 

‘I’m not here to accuse you,’ Draco tells her. ‘Or blackmail you, or make you relive anything you don’t want to. But the doll is yours, it  _ is  _ you. It should be up to you to decide what you want to do with it. I don’t hold anything over your head, I have done some things that I regret too. We can trade stories, if you wish.’ 

 

She gives him a hard look. ‘Oh? And what  _ stories  _ would you like to share?’ she asks. 

 

‘I…’ Another glance at Nico, who is just watching them both, for once keeping any thoughts to himself. ‘Very well. I watched a woman who taught at my school, who I saw at dinner nightly although never knew her name—I watched her killed in front of me, at the table where I still take Christmas dinner, as though she were a centrepiece. I saw her swallowed whole by the Dark Lord’s pet snake. I lied, just before I saw her killed—I said I didn’t know her. I did. Not well, but she’d stopped me only a few months before at school. Not for anything important, I was running to class—’ (Late, running late from hiding in the Room of Hidden Things, lost track of time, body aching, sick to his throat) ‘—and she stopped me in the hall and told me to slow down. I called her a filthy blood traitor. I looked her in the eyes and said that she might be a teacher, but she had no right to speak to me. I said that things were changing and she’d be out of a job soon, and that I’d spit on her when she was undoubtedly booted from the school once the headmaster was gone. I said this, thinking I would be the one to kill him myself. I looked in her eyes as her head was the last thing gone, because I couldn’t look away.’ 

 

Melissa doesn’t flinch at the story, although Nico does. Draco only sees out of the corner of his eye, as they are sitting beside one another. He reaches a hand out across the couch and takes Nico’s in his, assuring—although he’s unsure for whom.

 

‘I don’t see what any of that has to do with me,’ Melissa says plainly. 

 

‘I’m familiar with the lure of the Dark Arts. I know what it’s like to be in over your head and to make choices you—’ 

 

Melissa cuts him off. ‘I’ve never used dark magic, son.’ 

 

‘Er… you have,’ Draco prompts, and points to the doll. ‘At least once, when you killed your husband.’ 

 

Silence hangs heavy in the room for a long moment. Beside him, Draco hears Nico let off a soft, uncomfortable whistle. 

 

‘Is that wrong?’ Draco asks. 

 

Melissa continues not to speak for a moment, but then she licks her lips and says, ‘Yes, I killed my husband. How… How do you know that? No one knew.  _ No one.’ _

 

‘It was pretty clear,’ explains Draco. ‘When I was trying to find out who you were. I knew you had made a horcrux, which meant that you had killed someone. I found articles about your husband dying. The timeline fitted.’ 

 

_ ‘A horcrux,’  _ Melissa breathes, and she drops the doll from her hands. It tumbles to the ground, and Draco quickly slips off the couch and kneels down to pick her up. He straightens her skirt and sits back on the couch, propping her next to him. ‘No—I can’t—’ 

 

Insistent, Draco says, ‘Yes, you—’ 

 

Nico interrupts him. ‘Draco, she doesn’t know.’ 

 

‘Of course she knows. Hardly anyone knows how to make a horcrux, it’s rare, dark magic, and—’ 

 

_ ‘Draco.’  _

 

At Nico’s tone, Draco pauses, realising he’s being inappropriate. He looks at Melissa, who is covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide and afraid. ‘Why do you think that I—’ 

 

‘I apologise,’ he says. Then, carefully, he explains the doll’s behaviour. ‘I have had her checked,’ he adds finally. ‘By someone who probably knows more about horcruxes than anyone else currently alive. You may have heard of him. He seems to agree that the doll is a horcrux, although perhaps relatively benign.’ 

 

‘If you’re telling the truth…’ 

 

‘I have no reason to lie to you, Melissa. Nor desire.’

 

‘I didn’t plan to kill my husband, alright?’ she says, sitting back in her chair, one hand still trembling in front of her mouth and muffling her words. ‘But I should have. He was a monster. He nearly killed  _ me  _ more than once. He was drunk and angry, and I was stuck with him. I was stuck  _ here.  _ I never left the town to go to school, just muggle school until I was fifteen and magic I learned from my Ma. Spells to clean up around the house, cook and look after the garden. My husband plucked me right out of that and I, unprepared, thought that was all I was good for. He started off alright, but within a few years I didn’t even know him. Lookin’ after him and being a good housewitch. 

 

‘That’s not what I was good for. Turns out, I had a breaking point that I hit before either of us expected it. I’d been out in the day, we were seeing his niece on the weekend and I’d bought that doll to give her. He tried to hit me again that night while I was making dinner. I had a knife in my hand. Then the knife was in his throat. I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about it, except that after it was done I realised what I was in for. Not—I didn’t want him back, I didn’t regret it for him—but I tried to heal him. I knew enough healing magic to fix the wound, clean up the blood. I thought I needed to bring him back or I was a goner, whether it was muggle police or MACUSA. But he was already dead. There was nothing to be done. All I can remember thinking was that I needed to get somewhere safe, I needed to hide, I needed to stop time and protect myself,  _ escape.  _

 

‘The next thing I remember is talking to the muggle police, sobbing, lying through my teeth. Something about his heart giving out. Going to stay with my sisters. Everyone felt awful for me, and I just wanted to put it all behind me. I never went back to that house, I never saw anything from inside it ever again. Until now.’ 

 

Taking in Melissa’s story, Draco nods and observes the wary way that she is looking at the doll. ‘You don’t need to be scared of her,’ he says.

 

‘I ain’t scared of her,’ Melissa says. ‘I’m scared of…’ 

 

‘Yourself,’ finishes Draco. 

 

‘I had no idea I could do something like that. I didn’t know I had it in me.’ Whether she is talking about killing or creating a horcrux is immaterial, Draco decides. ‘Never, not once since then have I done anything like—’ 

 

‘Of course you haven’t,’ Nico says. ‘You haven’t needed to. You did what you had to to look after yourself. Who you are when someone pushes you to your worst limits doesn’t define you.’ 

 

‘Did you ever kill someone?’ Melissa asks Draco, sharply. ‘In your war?’ 

 

Draco shakes his head. 

 

‘Why not?’    
  


‘I didn’t have the stomach for it,’ Draco answers. ‘For killing good people.’ 

 

‘You think it would have been different if they were bad people?’ 

 

‘I don’t know. Probably not. I stand by what I said, though. I’m not here to judge you for your actions. I suspect you’re a stronger person than I will ever be.’ 

 

She raises an eyebrow. ‘And you know this because you’ve been living with… this piece of me?’ 

 

‘Yes. She’s a good influence.’ 

 

Melissa smiles. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she says, then sighs. ‘I suppose this makes sense. I’ve been remarkably healthy longer than I should be, nothing worse than a bad hip. I thought I was lucky, or blessed somehow. Like fate was forgiving me my mistakes. But instead I… I took this for myself. I’ve stolen my good fortune.’ 

 

‘As long as the doll exists you’re going to live forever,’ Draco says. ‘In some manner or another.’ 

 

‘I suppose that’s true.’ 

 

‘Would you like to keep it?’ 

 

‘Not particularly,’ Melissa says, frowning. ‘What are you going to do with it if I don’t take it for myself?’ 

 

‘Nothing would change. I’d take her back home and keep her safe. And she’d continue to look out for me, as she has been.’ 

 

‘And if I asked you to destroy her?’ asks Melissa. 

 

Something flips inside Draco. ‘I would take her to someone who could do that,’ he says hesitantly. ‘If that’s… if that is really what you want.’ 

 

‘You couldn’t do it yourself?’ 

 

Draco shakes his head.

 

‘I could,’ Nico says. He scratches his neck awkwardly, registering how that sounded. ‘I only mean, I wouldn’t want to live forever either. It’s not like destroying this thing would kill you, right? It would just… free you? To naturally live out your life?’ 

 

‘That would most likely be how it would work,’ Draco confirms. 

 

‘Then, I’d be able to do that. If you need to know that there is someone around who can.’

 

Melissa looks relieved. ‘Y’all are good kids,’ she says. 

 

‘I mean, you would not actually be able to destroy a horcrux,’ Draco informs Nico. ‘It requires some sort of powerful magical artefact or poison, but I suppose—’ 

 

‘It’s the thought that matters,’ says Melissa. ‘Let’s not worry about the details right now.’ 

 

Draco chews his tongue. ‘There’s another option. As opposed to destroying, there is a way to unmake a horcrux, or so I’ve been told.’ He licks his lips. ‘If you feel true remorse for what you did, you can reform your soul.’ 

 

At that, she just laughs. ‘My soul is just fine on that front as it is,’ she says, before pushing herself to her feet, hands bracing herself on her knees. ‘How ‘bout I make you boys a coffee? There’s some apple pie in the fridge, if you feel like a slice.’ 

 

They stay away from uncomfortable or dark topics for the rest of the afternoon, but stay on to talk. Draco finds, with a surprising rush of relief, that he likes Melissa about as much as he  hoped to. He mentions that he is a werewolf and, although she is surprised, she does not react strongly, instead just asking interested questions about his condition and how he copes with it. When the afternoon begins to fade into evening and Draco hears the telltale rustlings outside of garden gnomes coming out of their holes he offers to have Nico de-gnome the garden for her; an offer that Melissa takes up gratefully. 

 

She shuffles to the window, pushing it open. ‘With my hip I can’t anymore,’ she explains. ‘Sneaky things, they’ve overtaken the whole yard. They keep stomping all over the zinnias.’ 

 

Nico seems keen to have a go, shoving what is left of his apple pie into his mouth and jumping to his feet. ‘What do I do?’ he asks Draco around his mouthful. 

 

‘I’ll show you,’ Draco replies, leading him out into the garden and settling Melissa—the doll—back on the couch to keep herself entertained for a while. 

 

Nico has a good arm on him: a much better arm than Draco does. He is also wearing a much more practical outfit for gnome throwing, while Draco is in his usual mix of flowing cloaks and robes. They end up falling into a system where Draco coaxes (or sometimes summons) the gnomes out from where they are hiding and passes them to Nico, who gets a good swing on them and sends them flying with absolute rapt glee in the direction of the creek, where he manages to get most of them over onto the opposite bank. 

 

When they leave after the sun has set and Draco has ceased being able to see the gnomes trying (and failing) to cross the shallow creek in the darkness, Melissa gives each of them a warm hug in farewell. 

 

‘You look after that for me,’ she says, pointing to the doll. Ominously, she adds, ‘And if I ever crave the sweet release of death, you know what to do.’ 

 

Nico salutes her, and then in the car back to the hotel says, ‘Did I just promise to euthanize a little old lady one day? Is this what my life just is now?’

 

‘It’s alright,’ Draco drawls, tucking his feet up in the passenger seat. ‘I’ll get Potter to do it. He knows how.’ 

 

He adjusts Melissa’s little doll hat on her hair and smiles. 

 

*

 

Nico wakes Draco up in their shared bed on the morning of the full moon by kissing him softly on the lips and jaw until he stirs, blinking blearily in the early morning light. They are both still a little jetlagged, waking up early every day and getting into bed barely after nightfall. But today he can sense he has out-slept Nico by at least a couple of hours, his body aching and exhausted already. 

 

‘No,’ he murmurs as Nico sucks a gentle mark into the curve of his shoulder. ‘I’m too asleep right now.’ 

 

‘You need to get up,’ Nico urges. ‘I got breakfast delivered to the room. Eat, and then we’ll be driving.’ 

 

The smell of breakfast does perk Draco up slightly, despite his reduced appetite. The hotel they are staying in does amazing food because Draco insisted on shelling out for the nicest place they could possibly stay. He pushes himself to sit up, blinking heavily as Nico slides over the heavy tray. 

 

‘I can’t believe you slept through the room service being delivered,’ Nico says. 

 

Draco stares at his plate of buckwheat pancakes with applewood smoked bacon and moans. Nico has an enormous serving of scrambled eggs with country sausage links, shredded hash browns and rye bread. 

 

Picking up his knife and fork he says, ‘Where are we meant to be driving? I’m not sure I’m up to it today.’ 

 

‘We’ll take it slow,’ Nico promises. ‘We’re going to the National Forest. Monongahela. It’s only a few hours drive, we can make a couple of stops before sundown and rest.’ 

 

Draco narrows his eyes at him. _ ‘Nicolas.’  _

 

‘Just this once,’ Nico urges. ‘You won’t be seen. There are real wolves in the forest anyway, no one would be able to tell. But it’s huge, full of rock caves—Sasquatch has been hiding there for decades, you can do one night.’ 

 

‘Honestly,’ Draco says, ready to object. ‘I love you, but—’ 

 

‘I love you too,’ Nico interrupts. ‘Do it this once?’

 

That quiets Draco. He pauses, forkful of pancake dripping in syrup halfway to his mouth before putting it down carefully, pushing the bed tray of food safely out of the way and pushing Nico down to kiss him into the mattress, his heart thudding in his ears. 

 

*

 

Letting himself be guided forward over mossy grass and pebbled ground by Nico’s hand in his, Draco ducks under a low hanging branch and says, ‘You haven’t brought a tent or anything.’ 

 

The sun is getting low in the sky, casting a deep orange sunset glow over the rocky outcrops above them, matching the golden leaves splattered across the ground. 

 

‘I don’t intend to sleep,’ Nico says. ‘We can sleep tomorrow. Tonight we’re getting up there.’ He points to the top of a tall overhang across the shallow river in front of them. It is tall, higher than anything else immediately around, and wild. No tourist paths or easy routes, just a steep, dangerous climb. Nico is wearing gloves and a padded jacket at least, and a backpack. 

 

Draco groans. ‘I hate hiking,’ he says, but Nico just grins. 

 

‘You won’t be hiking.’ 

 

They stop next to a small, solitary waterfall that falls across a series of leaf strewn rocks that look like stone steps and Draco sits on a rock, catching his breath. He hates to admit it, but the fresh air and the cool wind, the rush of running water, the quiet rustling of the trees and the knowledge that they are the only people for acres is invigorating him. Instead of feeling like death warmed up he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the moon running through the blood in his veins, calling him. 

 

‘How long?’ Nico asks. The sun is gone, only the dullest light still lingering in this valley, bathing everything in deep dusk. 

 

Draco looks up at the stars overhead. They are so much brighter than they are in London, the smallest pinpricks against the purple sky, like splattered paint. He can’t see the moon yet, not from here, but he can feel it. 

 

‘I could turn now,’ he says breathlessly. ‘Nico, I don’t know if I—’ 

 

Nico steps closer, lacing his fingers through Draco’s fine hair and pulling him into a deep, hungry kiss. ‘You can,’ he says. ‘I promise. I’m right here.’

 

‘That’s what’s frightening, dimwit,’ Draco huffs, laughing. ‘Every time, it’s what if? What if the potion fails, what if I do something…’ 

 

‘You’re not a killer,’ Nico tells him firmly. ‘You never will be.’ 

 

_ He wanted to make me a killer.  _

 

He failed. 

 

‘Undress me,’ Draco whispers into Nico’s mouth.

 

When he transforms, there is something different about it. It still splits him into pieces, burning his skin—but there is something new to offset the pain. Like a rush of adrenaline. For a moment it terrifies him; the fear spiking through him that  _ this is it, this is the potion failing, this is what it feels like to lose himself _ . He pushes Nico away with hands that are half claws and tries to say  _ ‘Run’ _ but can only get out a feral snarl. 

 

But then it’s over and he can still hear his own thoughts, can still find the human within him. 

 

Nico is standing a few feet away, wary but entranced. His own clothes are haphazard, and he’s half-mindedly fixing them in case he has to flee. With a yip—not a howl or a bark or a sound any real wild wolf has made probably ever—Draco bounds off the rock he’s standing on and pushes Nico down to the ground with his front paws, sending him falling back into the fallen leaves and licks his face until Nico is laughing, rolling them over. 

 

It is freedom like Draco has never felt. His paws wet from the fresh, rapid water and falling in crunching leaves, damp grass as he runs through the trees, Nico beside him. He can hear too many things: the movements of other forest life, other wolves, somewhere in the distance, and with him: Nico, whooping and hollering with joy as they go up, and up, and up. 

 

The night is for them. In the moonlight they find a deep, perfectly still lake built into the stones of the mountain and Nico strips off and swims despite the cold. Draco follows him into the water, his fur insulating against the chill, and it is deep and bottomless beneath them but it doesn’t matter. He warms Nico up with his body afterwards until they are both mostly dry, cursing him for impulsivity—but they continue to climb. They rest on the edge of a deep chasm that goes straight down, and Nico drinks water from his bag and eats handfuls of nuts and fruit that Draco sniffs with disinterest.

 

And then at sunrise, they sit on a rocky outcrop—perhaps not the one that they were aiming for, it’s hard to tell—and watch the sky turn from indigo to cool pink to gold to bright, warm blue over the stretching sea of trees, the dips and climbs of perfect mountains that hide secrets in shadows. 

 

The valley below them is still shrouded in white, heavy mist when Draco shivers against the cold and says, ‘Let me guess,’ as Nico pulls out his cloak from the backpack and holds it out for him to wrap around himself. ‘I bet you want to go looking for Sasquatch instead of getting back to the hotel.’ 

 

‘I have the only cryptid I need right here,’ Nico replies around a yawn. 

 

Draco’s laughter seems to bounce off the rocks, carrying across the valley below them. ‘Come on.’ He stands up. ‘Let’s find a Starbucks. I need some coffee.’ 

 

_ THE END _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow


	21. Epilogue

‘That’s modest,’ Nico comments as Draco loads the bag containing his tent into the back of the car. ‘Are you sure that’s all you’re bringing?’ 

 

‘What can I say? I pack light.’ 

 

‘No you don’t.’ They are leaving from Nico’s place, the six-seater pulled up outside the tall terrace house with the messy garden and the tattered couch on the front steps. There are a collection of empty Smirnoff Ice bottles on the weatherbeaten and frost-coated side table next to the couch which really need to be cleaned up. They’ve been sitting there at least a month. ‘Okay, I know I’ve been clear on the situation, but just to reiterate—’ 

 

‘Yes, I know. We are going cryptid tracking. In the South Downs, of all places. It will be camping. There will not be utilities. We are going with your friends. I know Beth, but no one else. You have slept with Rashad in the past before we got together, but you’re just mates now, and it would be best if I don’t make a big deal out of it. I am free not to come, but also free to join you—and I have, indeed, decided to join you. Am I missing something?’ 

 

‘No, that about summarises it. Do you actually… want to track cryptids though?’ 

 

‘Of course not, I’m just going to sit at the base camp and make sure you don’t hook up with your ex again because I’m jealous and insecure,’ Draco drawls. 

 

‘You say that sarcastically, but I’m having trouble telling if you’re actually kidding.’ 

 

‘I’m being completely serious,’ Draco says, more heavily sardonically still. 

 

‘Alrighty, suit yourself.’ Nico jumps into the driver's seat of the car, and gestures for Draco to follow him. ‘Are you tetchy that I’ve scheduled this trip for our six month anniversary? And if so, do you know what  _ annus _ means?’ 

 

‘Yeah, I know what anus means. You should know too, by now,’ Draco says, and Nico snorts as he starts the car. 

 

They drive to several spots around London, picking up Nico’s various buddies. Gus seems nice and nonthreatening enough, and Beth is as much of an outdoorsy lesbian as ever. There’s also a skinny guy called Finley who seems about eighteen years old, gay and nerdy, and very nervous at getting to hang out with actual adults for the weekend. Then they stop at Rashad’s place. He throws his camping gear into the boot with the rest of it, and Draco levels him an icy glare as he climbs into the middle row of the car, next to Beth. 

 

‘This is Draco,’ Nico says to Rashad as he pulls out of the driveway, his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

 

‘Charmed,’ Draco says. Rashad is very handsome with striking eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that Draco could never grow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nico is smirking. 

 

‘Nice to meet you, mate,’ Rashad replies. 

 

Draco twists around in his seat to face forward again and sniffs. ‘I’m sure it is.’

 

He knows he is adding a layer of tension to the drive that would not otherwise be there. Beth is the only one apart from Nico that he feels comfortable with, and despite his best efforts he does find himself on guard around Rashad, as though he has to protect his territory somehow. 

 

Fortunately the drive is only a little over an hour and a half, and before he can start picking fights with the perfectly nice guy who slept with Nico a grand total of three times about two years ago they are out of the car and trudging to a camping spot to set up. 

 

‘Can you like, be a little bit cool?’ Nico asks in an undertone as they walk along the tree line, camping supplies in hand. 

 

‘I am being cool.’ 

 

‘Yeah, like somewhere in the Arctic Circle. You’re gonna give me frostbite. If you’re going to be like this to all my friends I’ve hooked up with, we’re going to have some issues.’ 

 

Draco huffs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been good at sharing. If we just get set up, I’ll… I’ll do my best to relax a bit.’ 

 

‘You’re not sharing,’ Nico reminds him. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about.’ 

 

Draco nods, taking his point. But still, he erects his tent a good twelve yards from the rest of them. It’s tricky without magic, but he manages slowly and approaches Nico while the others are getting a fire going. ‘You’re the only one who is allowed inside my tent,’ he tells him. ‘Can you make sure they understand that? No one else should even approach.’ 

 

‘Good job chilling out,’ Nico laughs, and at Draco’s serious look adds, ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. We’re all going into the woods in about an hour, after we’ve eaten something. You coming?’ 

 

Draco exhales. ‘No, thank you. I think I’ll stay at camp. You enjoy cryptid hunting without me.’ 

 

Nico rolls his eyes and waves him off. ‘Come have a sausage,’ he says. ‘Play nice for twenty minutes, at least.’ 

 

He does have a sausage, and he does manage to play fairly nice until they all pack up and head towards the woods. 

 

‘D-Do you want company back here?’ Finley asks, slightly nervously as the others all but smear mud on their cheeks as camouflage, ready to set out. 

 

Draco smiles at him. ‘No, I’m fine. Go. You’ll have fun.’ 

 

When he has waved them all off, Draco sets to work. He makes sure they’re definitely all gone, trudging deep into the woods, before he pulls out his wand. It doesn’t take much to find a suitable rock to transfigure—one of a medium size, roughly shaped like a dog. He crouches in front of it and gets to work. 

 

‘Alright, good,’ he says, when the creature jumps a few times, bouncing like a wallaby. It’s skin is mottled with scales, eyes reptilian and reflective. 

 

He casts another charm. ‘Run them in circles,’ he says. ‘If they get within a few feet, you’re a a rock again. But get their attention.’ 

 

The…  _ thing  _ makes a strangled sound of affirmation, its pincer teeth stretching its dog-like muzzle. 

 

Draco stares at it, hideously turned off by his own creation. ‘Well?’ he prompts. ‘What are you waiting for?’ 

 

And with that, the creature bounces off into the dark shadows of the woods. Draco watches it disappear with a smirk, before heading into his tent. 

 

*

 

‘Draco, you’ll never believe what you miss—’ Nico cuts himself off as he barges into the tent at about two in the morning, twigs in his hair and a seemingly hopeless grin stretching his cheeks. He looks around. ‘Okay, I get why no one else is allowed in here now.’ 

 

Draco swirls his glass of white wine and puts his book on the little shelf next to the hot tub he is half reclined in. He sinks a bit further into the bubbles around him and eyes Nico up and down. ‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘You look like you’ve been molested by a dryad.’ 

 

The interior of the tent is a bit outdated. It is a very 70s design, high wooden panel walls with a stone fireplace in the wall and the hot-tub in the centre of the room flanked by long, low leather sofas. But upstairs is a frankly ridiculous bed, the only piece of furniture in a spacious room, build into a dais in the centre of the floor and draped in sprawling blankets. 

 

Nico is gazing around in awe. ‘It’s bigger on the inside,’ he whispers. 

‘Wine?’ Draco offers, holding up the bottle. ‘It’s a vintage.’ 

 

‘I’m getting in the hot-tub,’ Nico says, pulling off his muddy shirt as Draco summons a second glass. ‘Gosh.’ 

 

‘Please do.’ Draco pours out the wine as Nico undresses and slides into the steaming water with a deep satisfied sigh. He takes the wine glass. ‘Tell me about your adventures. What did I miss out on?’ 

 

‘Chupacabra!’ Nico enthuses. ‘I couldn’t believe it, Chupacabra has never even been sighted legitimately outside of the Americas, except maybe once in Russia. And here it's in the south of England! That’s like, double cryptid!’ 

 

Draco narrows his eyes. ‘Are you sure? What did you see?’ 

 

‘We full on saw it! All of us. I have some photos in my bag, and they might be a bit blurry, but… I swear. It was like a hunched over kangaroo dog, long teeth and claws, a metre tall. Scaled skin, pointed spine,  _ everything. _ Sure gave us the runaround.’ 

 

‘Did you catch it?’ 

 

‘No, no, but we were just trying to get pics really. And I think we got that. It was so cool. Took us almost to Chichester, I reckon.’ 

 

Laughing, Draco passes the wine across. ‘Well, I’m glad you all made it back in one piece.’ 

 

‘I’m not so sure about Finley,’ Nico chuckles. ‘I don’t think he’s gotten any steady cardio in years. Rashad piggybacked him the last twenty minutes or so to camp.’ 

 

‘That’s good,’ Draco says sincerely. 

 

Nico takes a long sip of the cool wine and sighs as he relaxes in the water, closing his eyes. ‘I know it was you,’ he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. ‘Doing an illusion or a summoning or whatever.’ 

 

‘Transfiguration,’ Draco confirms. ‘The spell will have worn off by now, it’s just a rock again. I hope it wasn’t too blatant.’ 

 

‘It was worth it,’ Nico says. ‘I didn’t fall for it for more than, er, an hour or so. But the others are still convinced. Did you have a good night back here?’ 

 

‘Wonderful, I finished my book. I think I like nature, actually.’ 

 

Nico cracks up. ‘This isn’t nature, but alright. One way or another, this was the best trip we’ve had, uh, pretty much ever.’ 

 

Smiling, Draco says, ‘There’ll be no Chupacabra tomorrow. There’s been enough excitement. But I’ll come walkabout.’ 

 

‘Good. That’ll be the perfect weekend.’

 

‘Only the best for our bi-anniversary,’ Draco says smoothly, lifting his glass up and clinking it to Nico’s before taking a long drink. 

 

He can feel Nico’s feet in the water teasing up his leg, and glances at him, seeing his eyebrows raising suggestively. 

 

Draco adopts a coy look. ‘I believe you brought your own tent,’ he reminds him. ‘What was it you said? It’s tacky to fuck in a tent next to other people?’ 

 

‘Is this thing soundproofed?’ 

 

‘Of course, Nicolas, it’s a house.’ 

 

‘Then it’s not a tent,’ Nico replies, leaning forward to catch his lips. He prises the half empty glass out of his hand and sets it aside. ‘I think we can be a bit tacky.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this nonsense, if you made it this far! 
> 
> This closes off this fic, but we might have other little bits and bobs floating around in the tank that we'll add to the main series at some point. Who knows what direction they'll go, it's hard to say since we ended up... well, here. 
> 
> Honestly, if you stuck this out... you're my favourite. I don't even know. This was such self indulgent crack that I'm just. Glad we're here.


End file.
